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LIVES 



UNEDUCATED POETS, 

TO WHICH ARE ADDED 

ATTEMPTS IN VEESE, 

BY 

JOHN JONES, 

An Old Servant. 



ROBEET SOUTHEY, ESQ. 



POET LAUREATE. 




LONDON : 
H. G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 

MDCCCXXXVI. 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



A. 

COPIES. 

The Lord Chief Baron Alexander 6 

Miss Alexander, Airdrie House, Glasgow 6 

Sir John D. Astley 1 

The Rev. G. Alderson, Hornby, near Catterick 1 

Captain Abraham, Royal Military College 1 

Anonymous 12 



B. 



Duchess of Buckingham and Chandos 

Hon. William Barrington 

Rev. Henry Bishop, Holy Well, Oxfordshire . . . 

Mrs. Butler, Kingston, Lisle 

Samuel Barber, Esq., Grasmere 

G. C. Bedford, Esq 

Rev. Mr. Barham 

Rev. E. Berens , 

— Bellases, Esq., 8, New Square 

John Booth, Esq. , Killerby , Catterick 

N. Baily, Esq., Gallow Hill, Morpeth 

Rev. J. Barnes, Rectory, Richmond, Yorkshire 

Miss Bowe, Scorton, Catterick 

Mrs. Boulton, Givon's Grove, Leatherhead . . 

Miss Boulton, Epsom 

Mrs. Barclay, Epsom 

Dr. Bruce, Royal Military College , 

Lady Beaumont 

a2 



IV LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

William Sadlier Bruere, Esq 6 

Mrs. Sadlier Bruere 6 

Miss L. Sadlier Bruere 

Miss J. Sadlier Bruere 

Miss Bagge, Stradsett, near Lynn 

Miss Benn, Margaretta Farm, near Lynn 

Hon. Sir F. Burton, Bart 

Lady Burton 

Mr. Blackman, 9, Devonshire Place, Brighton 

Mr. C. Brown, 13, New Bond Street 

T. D. Belfield, Esq. Parson's Green 

Mrs. Wade Browne 



The Marchioness of Cleveland, Raby Castle 2 

Sir Foster Cunliffe, Bart 

Hon. Miss Courtney 

J. Capel, Esq. M.P. 32, Russel Square 

Mrs. Capel, Do 

Miss Capel, Do 

Rev. J . Cook, Kingston, Lisle 

Miss Cooper, .... Do 

Rev. J. Cleaver, Cronwell 

William Campbell, Esq., Portman Square 

Thomas Charter, Esq., Xynchfield, Taunton 

Miss E. Charter, Norton Fitzwarren, Taunton 

J. T. Coleridge, Esq 

Mrs. Coore, Scruton Hall, near Bedale 

Robert Colling, Esq., Haughton-Le-Skern, Darlington 

Edward Carter, Esq., Theakstone Hall, Bedale 

Major Coates, Priory, Andover 

A. Campbell, Esq., Bedale 

Mrs. Gary, Taunton 

Mrs. Chaylor, Spenithorn Hall, Bedale 2 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. V 

COPIES. 

Mrs. Costobadie, Wensley, near Leybourn 1 

Mrs. Creswell, Lynn 1 

Ralph Caldwell, Esq., Hilbrough near Swaffham 1 

Cockerell, Esq., Westbourn Manor House, Paddington . . 1 

Mrs, Cockerell Do 1 

Rev. W. Chester, Denton, near Harlestone 1 

D. 

The Bishop of Durham 5 

Rev. Peter De Bary, 24, Newman Street 1 

• De La Chaumette, Esq. Bedford Place 1 

Rev. Dr. D'Oyley, Lambeth 2 

Mrs. D'Oyley, Do 2 

Mr. F. D'Oyley .... Do 2 

E. 

Lady East 1 

Earl, Esq., Ripon 1 

Mrs. Edwai-ds, Ashill, near Watton, Norfolk 1 

James Everard, Esq., King Street, Lynn 1 

F. 

Sir William Foulkes, Bart., Hillingdon, Lynn 1 

Lady Foulkes Do 1 

Richard Fuller, Esq., Holcomb, near Dorking, Surrey 1 

Mrs. Fuller Do 1 

Joseph Fieldon, Esq., Witton House, Blackburn, Lancashire . . 1 

Miss Fryer, Park Row, Leeds 1 



The Right Hon. Lady Harriot Gurney, Runeton, near Lynn . . 1 

Lady Greenly, Titley, Herefordshire 1 

Miss Gamon 1 

Dr. Gooch, Librarian to his Majesty 6 



VI LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

John Graves, Esq. 2 

Rev. J. Griffiths, Emmanuel College, Cambridge 1 

Rev. Wm. Glaister, Kirkby Fleetham, Caiterick 1 

Rev. Wm. Glaister, Jun., University College, Oxford 1 

Henry Glaister, Esq., Bedale 1 



H. 
Sir Andrew Snape Hammond, Hammond Lodge, Lynn 

Lady Hammond Do 

Rev. Dr. Hughes, St. Paul's , 

Mrs. Hughes Do 

John Hughes, Esq 

Mrs. Hill, Streatham , 

Rev. J. B. Hunissen , 

Rev. Mr. Holmes , 

Rev. Mr. Halls 

Rev. S. Hodson, Sharrow, Ripon 

Mrs. Hodson Do 

John Hodson, Esq., Brackamore, Ripon 

John Holmes, Esq., Kennington 

Mrs. Hastings, Titley, Herefordshire 

Timothy Hutton, Esq., Clifton Castle, Masham 

Mrs. Hutton Do. 

Diaray Hutton, Esq., Aldborough Hall, Bedale 

Thomas Hoseason, Esq., Banklands, Lynn 

Mrs. Hoseason Do, 

Miss Hoseason Do 

Mrs. Hawkes, Dereham, Norfolk 

Thomas Hare, Esq., Stow Hall, near Downham 

Hon. Mrs. Hood, 37, Nottingham Place 



J. 

George Jenner, Esq., Doctors' Commons 
Mrs. Jarvis , 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. VU 

K, COPIES. 

Mrs. General Knight, 14, Portman Street 3 

Rev. Mr. Knap, St. Paul's 1 

Mrs. Kemplay, St. John's Place, Leeds 1 

Mr. Kirby, Bedale 1 

L. 
Her Grace the Duchess of Leeds, Hornby Castle, Yorkshire . . 4 

Lord Bishop of LlandafF 

Lady Lethbridge 

Miss Lethbridge 

Mrs. Laurence, Studley Park 

Rev. James Lynn, Kesvi'ick 

Miss E. M. Lucas, 100, Gloster Place 

J. C. Langlands, Esq., Bew^ick, Northumberland 

Mrs. Langlands Do 

O. Leefe, Esq., Richmond, Yorkshire 

Rev. E. Lockw^ood, Bedford 

Mrs. Lee Warner, Queber, Dereham, Norfolk 



M. 



Sir Alexander Malet, Bart., Gloucester Place 

Lady Malet Do 

Mrs. Malet, Norton Fitzw^arren, Taunton 

Mrs. Maberly 

John Monkhouse, Esq., Stowe, Herefordshire 

John Melville, Esq., Harley Street 

Rev. John Monson, Bedale -. . 

Miss Main, Richmond, Yorkshire 

Mrs. Maltby, Bath 

Mrs. Master, Croston Rectory, Chorley, Lancashire 
Miss Penelope Master . . Do 



Vni LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS* 

N.' 

Rev. T. Newcome 

Miss Newcome , . . 

Miss R. jS^ewcome 

Rev. Wm. Newsam, Scruton Rectory, Bedale . . 

Miss Xewsam J3o 

Rev. James Xevvsam, Sharow, Ripon 



O. 

Rev. Wm, Otter, Stockwell Green 

Mrs. Otter Do 

Mr. Wm. Otter Do 

Major Otter 

Miss Otter, Bethel, near Morpeth 

Rev. Edward Otter, Middleham, Yorkshire 



P. 

Honourable P. Pusey, Grosvenor Square 

Honourable Lady Lucy Pusey . . Do 

Mrs. Peters, Glenalyn, Gresford 

Hemy Pattison, Esq 

Rev. IMr. Peckman 

Colonel Pulleine, Crake Hall, Bedale 

Mr. H. Pybus, Hook House, near Catterick 

Captain Procter, Royal Military College, Bagshot 

Dr. Pickering, . . Do 

Mrs. Parker, Ely 

Mrs. Pepys, 48, Queen Anne Street 



Edward Quillinan, Esq. 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. IX 

R. COPIES. 

Mrs. G€o. Rouse 

Mrs. Redfern, Langton Hall, Darlington 

Dr. Rumsey 

James Robson, Esq., Crake Hall, Bedale 

Henry Robinson, Esq., 5, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden .. 

Mrs. Robinson Do 

Mr. Henry Raikes 

Mrs. Rouviere, Yately, Hants 

Rev. C. S. Ridley, University College, Oxford 

Miss Roseboom, at Wm. Sadlier Bruere's, Esq 

George Rennie, Esq., 21, Whitehall Place 

John Rennie, Esq Do 

Mr. James Roberts, Leatherhead, Surrey 

Mrs. Rickman 3 



S. 

Mrs. James Stuart, Portland Place 

Mrs. Smith, Thames Bank 

H. Shrine, Esq 

Humphrey Senhouse, Esq., Nether Hall, Cumberland 

Rev. Dr. Sleath 

James Stephens, Esq 

Miss Storey, Bewick, Northumberland 

Rev. John Swire Mansfield, Richmond, Yorkshire . . . 

Rev. Dr. Scot, Catterick 

Miss Scot Do. . , 

Miss M. Scot . . Do 

Mr. Shepherd, Bedale 

Miss Shuldham 

T. Standart, Esq. Taunton 

Mrs. Scroope, Danby Hall, Middleham 

Dr. H. H. Southey, 1 , Harley Street 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



T. 

The Countess of Tyrconnel, Kiplin, Catterick 

The Rev. the Master of Trinity College 

Henry Taylor, Esq 

Richard Twining, Esq 

George Twining, Esq 

J, A. Twining, Esq 

Rev. A. Townsend, Vicar of Northallerton . , 

Rev. Chauncy Hare Townshend 

Miss Emily Trevenen, Helston, Cornwall . . 



V. 

H. Villebois, Esq., Marham, near SwafFham 

W. 
The Right Hon. Charles Watkin Williams Wynn . 

The Lord Bishop of Winchester 

William Wordsworth, Esq., Rydal Mount 

Mrs. Whitbread 

Mrs. Wood 

Miss Wood i 

The Dean of Westminster 

The Rev. Neville White 

Jonathan Walker, Esq., Fencote, Bedale , 

Henry Witham, Esq., 78, Gower Street 

Thomas Wright, Esq., Newcastle 

Mrs. Wright Do. 

Rev. James Wheeler, Clints, Richmond, Yorkshire 
Rev. W. Wheeler, Royal Military College, Bagshot 

Rev. J. Wells 

Mr. Ward, 38, New Bond Street 

Miss Worthington, Taunton 

Miss Wingfield, 17, Bloomsbury Square 

John Wiltshire, Shockei A^ick, near Bath 

Rev. John Wood Warter, Christ Church, Oxford . . 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

INTRODUCTION, with Obseuvations on Unedu- 
cated Poets 1 

ATTEMPTS IN VEUSE BY JOHN JONES. 

Some Account of the Author, written by Himself 171 

The Author to his Book 181 

The Journey of Life 183 

The Snowball 185 

Why that Sigh, &c 196 

Lines addressed to Mrs. Lawrence, Studley Park, York- 
shire 198 

A Voice from Ripon 200 

Deep in the Dell 202 

An Address to a Dead Cat, which had fallen from the Ivy- 
tree that runs up the Tower of Kirkby Fleetham 

Church 204 

Lines occasioned by walking over some Fallen Leaves . . 209 

The Butterfly to his Love 212 

To a wild Heath Flower 213 

Old Mawley to his Ass 215 

To the Tongue 220 

To Lydia, with a Coloured Egg, on Easter Monday 226 



Xll CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Hark ! Hark ! &c 227 

To Eliza, with a little Gold Key » 229 

The Friend of my Heart 230 

Mary Killcrow 232 

Home 238 

An Address to a Violet 240 

Jane Barnaby 243 

Sally Roy 246 

By Love we were led, Jane 247 

A fanciful Description of a Passage down part of the 

River Wye, of a Cottage and its Inhabitants, &c. . . 249 

Written in Alnwick Castle 262 

The World's like a Tyrant, &c 264 

Layer's Banks 265 

My Mary is no more 268 

Reflections on visiting a Spring at different Seasons of the 

Year ,. 270 

Mary St. Clair 277 

Orran and Bertha 278 

The Children's Dirge at the Interment of a Gold Fish . . 283 
An Excuse to a Young Lady for not writing some Verses 

on her Birth-Day 285 

Written for a Young Lady to present to her Parents on the 

First Day of the Year 1825 286 

Lines on parting from Miss H. when two years old .... 289 

Thou tellest me, my Love 291 

Louisa to Julia, with a Bunch of Flowers 293 

To Maria, on her Birth-Day 294 

To a Friend of Early Life, on her Birth-Day ...,.,,... 296 



CONTENTS. Xlll 

PAGE. 

Lines written for Miss L. S. Bruere to present to her Mo- 
ther on her Birth-Day 300 

Lines addressed to the Misses L. and T. Sadlier Bruere, 

on the First Day of the Year 1824 301 

Lines written for Miss L. S. B. to present to her Mother, 

on her Birth-Day, with some Primroses and Violets 303 
Written for A. S. B. on his Birth-Day, when Eight Years 

old 304 

On the Death of Lord Byron 306 

On the Battle of Waterloo 308 

Poor Kitty 311 

Lines occasioned by reading a printed Bill in a Shop- 
Window at Richmond, Yorkshire 313 

On the Death of Gaffer Gun 315 

To a Gentleman who married a Second Wife in Three 

Days after the Interment of his First 317 

My Nose 319 

From a Cobler to B. on returning him an old Pair of Shoes 322 
Verses written for a Boy to learn and repeat, who had 

committed a small Theft 324 

A Prayer in Affliction 326 

An Epitaph on Philip and Mary Jones 327 

Lines on the Death of Miss Sadlier Bruere 328 

To our worthy Shepherd, Mr. Way 331 



INTRODUCTION. 



LIVES AND WORKS OF OUR UNEDUCATED POETS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Being at Harrowgate with my family in the sum- 
mer of 18^7, I received there the following letter: 

'' Sir, 

" The person who takes the liberty 

of addressing you is a poor, humble, uneducated 

domestic, who, having attempted the stringing 

together a few pieces in verse, would be happy in 

the possession of your opinion of them. 

" Living in a family. Sir, in which there are 
fourteen children, I have devoted but little time 
exclusively to their construction, they having been 
chiefly composed when in the exercise of my do- 
mestic duties, and frequently borne on my memory 
for two or three weeks before I had leisure to ease 
it of its burthen. 

" Seeing in a Leeds paper. Sir, that you were at 
Harrowgate, I avail myself of the opportunity it 
affords me of soliciting the favour of your perusal 
of them, as well, Sir, from a conviction that I 
should be satisfied with your opinion, as that, 
from the kindness of your nature, you would for- 

B 



[NTRODUCTION. 



give me if I intruded upon you what you could not 
in justice foster with your approval. 

" Should it be your pleasure to inspect them, 
Sir, I shall be happy in sending them to you; and 
though it may not suit your present convenience, 
they might, in your possession. Sir, await a more 
favourable opportunity. 

" The last of my humble attempts, Sir, occurred 
to me from seeing a lady of the family collecting 
the crumbs from the breakfast-table, and putting 
them by to await the coming of a little red-breast, 
who never failed to solicit them at the window 
during the winter months; and as it has just fallen 
from among some papers in which I placed it two 
or three months ago, not having room to insert it 
in my book, it suggested the idea of sending it as a 
specimen; and though, Sir, I can hardly hope that 
my poor little Robin possesses any trait of beauty 
worthy of your admiration, I do hope, Sir, that its 
harmless simplicity will obtain for me your pardon 
for the liberty I have taken in thus addressing 
you, and with that hope. Sir, I subscribe myself 
" Your most respectful 

and most dutiful servant, 

John Jones." 

" At W. S. Bi^uere's, Esq. 
KiukbyIIall, near Catterick, 
Tuisdiiy, \9tii June." 



INTRODUCTION, 



THE RED-BREAST. 



Sweet social bird with breast of red, 
How pr one's my heart to favour thee ! 

Thy look oblique, thy prying head, 
Thy gentle affability ; 

Thy cheerful song in winter's cold. 
And, when no other lay is heard. 

Thy visits paid to young and old. 
Where fear appals each other bird; 

Thy friendly heart, thy nature mild, 

Thy meekness and docility. 
Creep to the love of man and child. 

And win thine own felicity. 

The gleanings of the sumptuous board, 
Conveyed by some indulgent fair. 

Are in a nook of safety stored, 

And not dispensed till thou art there. 
b2 



INTRODUCTION. 

In stately hall and rustic dome, 
The gaily robed and homely poor 

Will watch the hour when thou shalt come. 
And bid thee welcome to the door. 

The Herdsman on the upland hill, 
The Ploughman in the hamlet near. 

Are prone thy little paunch to fill. 
And pleased thy little psalm to hear. 

The Woodman seated on a log 
His meal divides atween the three, 

And now himself, and now his dog, 
And now he casts a crumb to thee. 

For thee a feast the Schoolboy strews 
At noontide, when the form's forsook ; 

A worm to thee the Delver throws. 
And Angler when he baits his hook. 

At tents where tawny Gipsies dwell. 

In woods where Hunters chase the hind. 

And at the Hermit's lonely cell, 

Dost thou some crumbs of comfort find. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Nor are thy little wants forgot, 
In Beggar's hut or Crispin's stall ; 

The Miser only feeds thee not, 
Who suffers ne'er a crumb to fall. 

The Youth who strays, with dark design, 
To make each well-stored nest a prey. 

If dusky hues denote them thine. 
Will draw his pilfering hand away. 

The Finch a spangled robe may wear, 
The Nightingale delightful sing, 

The Lark ascend most high in air, 
The Swallow fly most swift on wing, 

The Peacock's plumes in pride may swell. 

The Parrot prate eternally. 
But yet no bird man loves so well, 

As thou with thy simplicity. 



I 



b INTRODUCTION. 

Sir Joseph Banks used pleasantly to complain 
that tortoise-shell tom-cats were the plague of his 
life, because every ignorant man or woman who 
happened to possess one, favoured him with the 
first offer of it, at fifty, or perhaps an hundi'ed 
guineas below what, upon the faith of vulgar opi- 
nion, they believed to be the established price of 
so great a curiosity. For this flattering preference 
Sir Joseph was indebted to the high rank in the 
scientific world which he so deservedly held and 
filled so worthily : it was a tribute to his station and 
his character. Authors, and especially poets, who 
send their works for my perusal and opinion and 
advice thereon, have been as much the plague of 
my life as the tom-tortoise-shells were of his. Mr. 
George Coleman has no sinecure in his office of 
Licenser for the Stage ; alas ! the office which has 
thus been thrust upon me is a sine-salary, and the 
business itself is of a more ungracious kind. Two 
circumstances have drawn upon me this persecution; 
the publication of Henry Kirke White's Remains, 
and the appointment which I have the honour to 
hold of Poet Laureate, . . the Poet Laureate being 
supposed by many persons to be a sort of Lord 
Chancellor in Literature, a Lord Keeper of the 
King's taste, and to have the literary patronage of 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

the public and the state at his disposal. The 
appointment itself has not exposed me to more 
sarcasms, as pungent as they have been new, con- 
cerning sack and sackbut, than this opinion has 
produced suitors to the High Court of Poetry over 
which I am supposed to preside. Know all men 
by these presents, that the Poet Laureate receiveth 
no allowance of sack; (the more's the pity!) and 
that any application to him in that, or any other 
capacity, for poetical preferment, from aspirant sons 
of song, might as well be addressed to the Man 
in the Moon. 

Little likelihood then, certain readers will think, 
should there seem to have been, that Mr. John 
Jones would obtain such an answer to his applica- 
tion as he hoped for. But if there be some who 
think thus, many others I am sure there are whom 
it will not surprise to know, that the incipient 
displeasure which such a communication may be 
expected to excite, gave way as I perused his 
letter, and was completely dispelled by the verses : 
the former pleased me because of its simple humi- 
lity; and in the latter, with all their imperfections, 
I saw something of Cunningham's vein, or of Cot- 
ton's, a man of higher powers, whom Cunningham 
followed. I read them to my wife and daughters. 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

and to a lady of our party, whose approbation in 
the case of my own writings has long been to me 
an earnest of the only approbation which I am 
desirous to obtain, . . that of the wise, the gentle, 
and the good. They were pleased with the na- 
tural images and the natural feeling in these poor 
verses; and they were pleased, also, that instead 
of returning a discouraging reply and thus pre- 
venting any farther trouble to myself, I told my 
humble applicant he might send me his book, warn- 
ing him, however, against indulging in any ex- 
pectation that such poems would be found gene- 
rally acceptable in these days ; . . the time for them 
was gone by, and whether the public had grown 
wiser in these matters or not, it had certainly 
become less tolerant and less charitable. 

Accordingly, the manuscript was sent me, and 
with it the letter which follows. 



" KiRKBY Hall, near Catterick, 
23d June. 

" Sir, 

'' I FEEL greatly obliged to you for your 

kindness in condescending to take the trouble of 

perusing my poor bits of verses. I am only fearful, 

Sir, that, even in your own expectations, you will 

not be gratified. Mine, Sir, have never been of a 



INTRODUCTION. 9 

very sanguine nature. Had I been so fortunate as 
to come under your notice twenty years ago, your 
advice and encouragement might have made some- 
thing better of me ; but I am now, Sir, on the 
wrong side of fifty, and having never met with 
encouragement, and being generally very actively 
employed, I have not had leisure to seek for ideas, 
but only endeavoured to arrange those that came 
voluntarily, and that at times, Sir, when I have 
been too busily engaged to make a happy disposal 
of them. Consequently, Sir, my productions have 
been very limited, but from having had a little 
more leisure the last year, I have added several 
little pieces to my stock. Being on the Continent 
a few years. Sir, I attempted a long piece, which 
I intended denominating The Maid of the Wye, 
and under great difficulties I persevered in it for 
some time; but we were a large family in a small 
house. Sir, and from the repeated solicitations of 
some little favourites of the family, and from the 
noisy clamour of several Flemish maid-servants, 
and other causes, I became so disgusted with it 
that I gave it up, and could never again resume it. 
I have copied some passages of it into my book, 
the rest is destroyed; those you will find, Sir, 
entitled, A Fanciful Description of a Passage down 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

the Wye ; Fragments ; and, I believe, all that run 
in the same metre, are parts of it. Should it be 
your opinion. Sir, that by weeding out a few of 
the worst pieces, and, if their faults were pointed 
out to me, correcting others, it would not be too 
contemptible to solicit a subscription for, I might 
as well. Sir, avail myself of any little benefit it 
might aiFord me ; but if otherwise, Sir, I must beg 
of you not to let your kindness get the better of 
your judgement; for though I have had the bring- 
ing up of a family under circumstances which have 
subjected me to great difficulties, the struggle I 
trust is over, and if it has left me poor. Sir, my 
anxiety in respect to worldly prosperity is greatly 
diminished. It may be some gratification to your 
benevolent heart, Sir, to know that the interest 
you take in promoting the wishes of such an infe- 
rior being as myself, excites my gratitude; and 
when I tell you, Sir, that I have been upwards of 
twenty years in my present service, and that I 
possess the good wishes of every family it has been 
my lot to serve, I hope, Sir, it will impress you 
with a favourable opinion of my character. Be- 
lieve me. Sir, I feel myself 

Your much obliged and most dutiful Servant, 

John Jones." 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

This letter did not diminish the favourable opi- 
nion which I had formed of the writer from his 
first communication. Upon perusing the poems I 
wished they had been either better or worse. 
Had I consulted my own convenience, or been 
fearful of exposing myself to misrepresentation and 
censure, I should have told my humble applicant 
that although his verses contained abundant proof 
of a talent for poetry, which, if it had been culti- 
vated, might have produced good fruit, they would 
not be deemed worthy of publication in these times. 
But on the other hand, there were in them such 
indications of a kind and happy disposition, so 
much observation of natural objects, such a relish 
of the innocent pleasures offered by nature to the 
eye, and ear, and heart, which are not closed 
against them, and so pleasing an example of the 
moral benefit derived fi'om those pleasures, when 
they are received by a thankful and thoughtful 
mind, that I persuaded myself there were many 
persons who would partake, in perusing them, the 
same kind of gratification which I had felt. There 
were many, I thought, who would be pleased at 
seeing how much intellectual enjoyment had been 
attained in humble life, and in very unfavourable 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

circumstances ; and that this exercise of the mind, 
instead of rendering the individual discontented 
with his station, had conduced greatly to his hap- 
piness, and if it had not made him a good man, 
had contributed to keep him so. This pleasure 
should in itself, methought, be sufficient to con- 
tent those subscribers who might kindly patronize 
a little volume of his verses. Moreover, I consi- 
dered that as the Age of Reason had commenced, 
and we were advancing with quick step in the 
March of Intellect, Mr. Jones would in all likeli- 
hood be the last versifyer of his class ; something 
might properly be said of his predecessors, the 
poets in low life, who with more or less good for- 
tune had obtained notice in their day; and here 
would be matter for an introductory essay, not un- 
interesting in itself, and contributing something 
towards our literary history. And if I could thus 
render some little service to a man of more than 
ordinary worth, (for such upon the best testimony 
Mr. Jones appeared to be,) it would be something 
not to be repented of, even though I should fail in 
the hope (which failure, however, I did not appre- 
hend) of aifording some gratification to " gentle 
readers:" for readers there still are, who, having 



INTRODUCTION. 13 

escaped the epidemic disease of criticism, are wil- 
ling to be pleased, and grateful to those from whose 
writings they derive amusement or instruction. 

It is evident that there could be no versifyers of 
this class in early times. The language of a 
Saxon thane was not more cultivated than that of 
the churl on his estate ; indeed, the best as well 
as earliest of our Anglo-Saxon poets was in the 
lowest condition of freemen, and was employed as a 
night-herdsman when he composed his first verses. 
The distinction betv/een the language of high and 
low life could not be broadly marked, till our 
language was fully formed, in the Elizabethan age : 
then the mother tongue of the lower classes ceased 
to be the language of composition; that of the 
peasantry was antiquated, that of the inferior citi- 
zens had become vulgar. It was not necessary 
that a poet should be learned in Greek and Latin, 
but it was that he should speak the language of 
polished society. 

Another change also, in like manner widening 
the intellectual distinctions of society, had by that 
time taken place. In barbarous ages the lord had 
as little advantage over his vassal in refinement of 
mind as of diction. War was his only business ; 
and war, even in the brightest days of chivalry, 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

tended as surely to brutalize the feelings of the 
chiefs, and render their hearts callous, as the occu- 
pations of husbandry did to case-harden and coarsen 
the hind and the herdsman ; but when arts and luxu- 
ries (of that allowable kind for which a less equivo- 
cal term is to be desired) had found their way from 
cloisters into courts and castles, an improvement 
as well of intellect as of manners, rapidly ensued. 
Then, also, the relations of states became more com- 
plicated, and courts in consequence more politic: 
the minds of the great grew at the same time more 
excursive and more reflecting ; and in the relaxa- 
tion which they sought in poetry, something more 
was required than the minstrels afforded in their 
lays, whether of ribaldry or romance. Learning 
being scarce, they who possessed a little were 
proud of exhibiting in their writings the extent of 
that small stock; and the patrons whom they 
courted, and who themselves were in the same 
stage of intellectual culture, were flattered at being 
addressed in a strain which must have been unintel- 
ligible to the multitude. When literature revived, 
the same kind of pleasure which had just before 
been given by a pedantic vocabulary, was produced 
by classical allusions, and imitations of ancient, or 
of Italian writers. The language then improved so 



INTRODUCTION. 15 

suddenly, that it changed more in the course of 
one generation than it had done in the two pre- 
ceding centuries; EHzabeth, who gi'ew up while 
it was comparatively barbarous, lived to see it 
made capable of giving adequate expression to the 
loftiest conceptions of human imagination. Poets 
were then, perhaps, more abundant than they have 
been in any subsequent age until the present: and, 
as a necessary consequence of that abundance, all 
tricks of style were tried, and all fantasticalities of 
conceit abounded; they who were poets by imi- 
tative desire or endeavour, putting forth their 
strength in artificial and ambitious efforts, while 
the true poets held the true course, . . though the 
best of them did not always escape from what had 
thus been made the vice of their age. 

The circumstances, therefore, of low breeding 
and defective education were so unfavourable, that 
the first person who, in a certain degree overcame 
them, obtained great notoriety, and no inconsider- 
able share of patronage. This was John Taylor, 
the Water-Poet, a man who has long been more 
known by name than by his writings. He was 
born in Gloucestershire, but at what place none of 
his biographers have stated in their scanty notices, 
nor has he himself mentioned in the volume enti- 



16 - TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

tied, '' All the Works of John Taylor, the Water- 
Poet, being sixty-three in number, collected into 
one Volume by the Author, with sundry new Ad- 
ditions, corrected, revised, and newly imprinted, 
1630." The book, though in height that of a 
modern quarto, would be catalogued among folios, 
for its shape ; it is in fact neither, but of a non- 
descript size which may be called sexto, the sheet 
being folded into six leaves. It contains some- 
thing more than 600 pages, in three series of 
paging, more than two-thirds consisting of verse 
closely printed and in double columns. Taylor 
lived twenty-four years after the publication of this 
volume, and published a great deal more; and 
though in this collection, (which is all that I have 
had opportunity of perusing,) there is some ri- 
baldry and more rubbish, there is, nevertheless, 
so much which repays the search, that I wish the 
remainder of his works had been in like manner 
collected. 

Young Taylor had an odd schoolmaster, upon 
whom some of his neighbours played a scurvy 
jest; the poor man was fond of new milk, and 
went to market for the purpose of buying a milch 
cow; but being short-sighted, and perhaps in other 
respects better qualified to deal with books than 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. IT 

men, the seller, in sport it may be believed rather 
than roguery, sold him a bull, . . which poor '' Mas- 
ter Green, being thus overseen," drove contentedly 
home, and did not discover the trick till he had 
called the maid to milk it. What happened to the 
pail in consequence called forth a memorial in four 
lines from his pupil, which was probably John's 
first attempt in verse. In other respects he was 
by his own account no very hopeful scholar : in 
that part of the poem called Taylor's Motto, which 
he entitles, *' My Serious Cares and Considera- 
tions," he says — 

" I was well entered, forty winters since, 
As far as possum in my accidence ; 
y And reading but from 'possum to posset, 

There I was mired and could no further get, 
Which when I think upon with mind dejected, 
I care to think how learning I neglected." 

Having thus stuck fast in the thorns and bram- 
bles of the Latin grammar, he was taken from 
school and bound apprentice to a Thames water- 
man, perhaps as soon as he could handle an oar. 
The occupation is likely to have been his own 
choice, for it was well suited to his bold, hardy, 
and at that time, idle disposition; in those days, 
too, it was a thriving one, and gave employment 
c 



18 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

to more men than any other trade or calHng in the 
metropolis. Taylor, indeed, says, that *' the num- 
ber of watermen and those that lived and were 
maintained by them, and by the only labour of the 
oar and scull, betwixt the bridge of Windsor and 
Gravesend, could not be fewer than forty thou- 
sand." There may be some exaggeration in this ; 
but when this assertion was made, the company 
was overstocked with hands, the circumstances 
which had occasioned its great growth and pro- 
sperity having changed. The first cause of its 
decline was the long peace which this country 
enjoyed under James I.: the Thames had been 
in time of war the great nursery for the navy; 
the watermen were " at continual demand" for the 
Queen's service, " as in duty bound," and good 
service they had done in all Elizabeth's wars. 
" Every summer 1500 or 2000 of them were em- 
ployed" in her ships, " having but nine shillings 
and fourpence the month, apiece, for their pay; 
and yet they were able then to set themselves out 
like men, with shift of apparel, linen and woollen, 
and forbear charging of their prince for their 
pay, sometimes six months, nine months, twelve 
months, sometimes more ; for then there were so 
few watermen, and the one half of them being at 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 19 

sea, those that staid at home had as much work as 
they would do." To then' good fortune, also, for a 
while, the players at that time " began to play on 
the Bankside (Southwark) and to leave playing in 
London and Middlesex, for the most part." There 
were three companies playing there at once, " be- 
sides th« bear-baiting ;" and " then there went such 
great concourse of people by water, that the small 
number of watermen remaining at home were not 
able to carry them, by reason of the court, the 
terms, the players, and other employments ; so that 
they were enforced and encouraged (hoping that 
this golden stirring world would have lasted ever) to 
take and entertain men and boys." Owing to this 
establishment of the three theatres on the Bank- 
side, the company of watermen was increased more 
than half. But peace came, and the men who had 
been employed at sea returned to their old trade 
upon the river ; and as misfortunes seldom come 
singly, (for a misfortune to the watermen peace 
was,) two of the three sets of players removed 
from the Surrey side to the Middlesex one, and 
there played " far remote from the Thames, so 
that every day in the week they drew unto them 
3000 or 4000 people that were used to spend their 
monies by water." This reduced the watermen to 
c2 



20 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

great distress, and in 1613 they petitioned the 
King that the players might not be allowed to 
have a playhouse in London, nor within four miles 
of it, on that side the river; " the reasons that 
moved us unto it," says Taylor, " being charitably 
considered, make the suit seem not only reason- 
able, but past seeming most necessary to be sued 
for, and tolerable to be granted." He was selected 
by the company to deliver the petition and follow 
the business, which he did at the cost of seven 
pounds two shillings, for " horse-hire, horse-meat, 
and man's meat, expended in two journies to 
Theobalds, one to Newmarket, and two to Roy- 
ston," before he could get the petition referred to 
the commissioners for suits. A counter-petition 
was presented by his Majesty's players, who said, 
that the watermen might just as reasonably pro- 
pose to remove the Exchange, the walks in St. 
Paul's, or Moorfields, to the Bankside, for their 
own profit, as to confine them to it; " but our extre- 
mities and cause," says Taylor, " being judiciously 
pondered by the honourable and worshipful com- 
missioners. Sir Francis Bacon very worthily said, 
that so far forth as the public weal was to be 
regarded before pastimes, or a serviceable, decay- 
ing multitude before a handful of particular men, or 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 21 

profit before pleasure, so far was our suit to be 
preferred before their's." A day was appointed for 
determining the business ; but before it came, the 
chief commissioner, Sir JuHus Caesar, was made 
Master of the Rolls, by which means the commis- 
sion was dissolved, and the case never came to a 
farther hearing. Had it proceeded, another proof 
would probably have been given, notwithstanding 
Bacon's opinion, that the convenience of the great 
public when opposed to any part of that public, 
must ultimately prevail, even though the conveni- 
ence gained should be trifling, and the injury sus- 
tained by the minor part of the most serious nature. 
Within our own memory, shoe-strings have pre- 
vailed over buckles in despite of ridicule, and 
covered buttons over metal ones in defiance of 
pains and penalties, in each case to the great detri- 
ment of what had been a flourishing branch of our 
manufactureso But the watermen were unreason- 
able in requiring that the Londoners, in that best 
age of the English drama, should, whenever they 
went to the play, be put to the discomfort and 
charged with the expense of crossing and recross- 
ing the water ; and that the players should be con- 
fined to the Bankside, where bad weather must 
so materially have affected their receipts. 



22 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

Taylor complains in another of his pamphlets, 
that he and " many thousands more were much 
impoverished and hindered of their livings" by the 
proclamations which from time to time were issued, 
requiring the gentry to retire from the capital into 
their own countries. In certain despotic govern- 
ments the sovereigns are said to have pursued the 
evil policy of keeping their nobles about the court, 
for the purpose of lessening their influence in the 
provinces, and rendering them dependent upon 
court favour and state employments, by involving 
them in habitualexpenses beyond what their patri- 
monial revenues could support. No such erroneous 
views either of their own or the public interest were 
entertained by the kings of England ; but this op- 
posite policy, which required the landed proprie- 
tors to reside during the greater part of the year 
upon their own estates, seems, like the acts that 
were enforced against new buildings about London, 
to have originated in a prudent desire of keeping 
down both the size and population of the metro- 
polis, because of the plague, visitations of which 
were then so frequent and so dreadful. This de- 
prived the watermen of good part of their employ; 
and Taylor complains that his " poor trade," which 
had already suffered so much, was undone when 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 23 

hackney coaches came into use. The decay of 
what had once been a thriving occupation allowed 
him to engage in adventures which he might have 
been too wise to have undertaken if his fortune had 
been more prosperous. 

But before this unfavourable change in his cir- 
cumstances was felt, he had become known as the 
Water-Poet. His own account of the manner in 
which he took to the rhyming trade, may be un- 
derstood to mean, that he was led to it by an 
imitative impulse, to his own surprise, and not 
very early in life. 

*' I that in quiet, in the days of yore, 
Did get my living at the healthful oar. 
And with content did live, and sweat, and row, 
Where, like the tide, my purse did ebb and flow; 
My fare was good, I thank my bounteous Fares, 
And pleasure made me careless of my cares. 
The watry element most plentiful, 
Supplied me daily with the oar and scull ; 
And what the water yielded, I with mirth 
Did spend upon the element of earth. 
Until at length a strange poetic vein. 
As strange a way possest my working brain : 
It chanced one evening on a reedy bank. 
The Muses sat together in a rank. 
Whilst in my boat I did by water wander, 
Repeating lines of Hero and Leander. 



24f TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

The triple Three took great delight in that, 
Call'd me ashore, and caused me sit and chat, 
And in the end, when all our talk was done. 
They gave to me a draught of Helicon, 
Which proved to me a blessing and a curse, 
To fill my pate with verse, and empt my purse." 

These lines seem also to confess, that though he 
" left no calling for this idle trade," he had in 
some degree neglected one. It is, indeed, appa- 
rent, that he was a boon companion, neither un- 
conscious of the wit and ready talents which he 
possessed, nor diffident of them; and though in 
his grammatical studies he had stuck at posset, he 
had been in a very good school for improving the 
sort of ability with which Nature had endowed 
him. Even as late as Dr. Johnson's days, a license 
of wit (if wit it may be called) was allowed to all 
persons upon the river, which would not have been 
tolerated any where else. Fluency in this sort of 
speech he could not choose but learn; and his 
vocation also brought him into conversation with 
persons of all descriptions, the best as well as the 
worst, especially when the theatres were on the 
Bankside. Moreover, he was not a mere fresh- 
water sailor ; he had seen service enough to have 
entitled him to call himself an old seaman, if that 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 25, 

denomination had in those days sounded more 
respectably than his own; for he had made no 
fewer that sixteen voyages in the Queen's ships, 
and was in the expeditions under Essex at Cadiz 
and the Azores. And no other occupation could 
have offered him such opportunities for reading as 
invited him in the intervals of chance leisure, even 
on his busiest days; in fact, he was a diligent 
reader ; and although it was because of his low 
birth, low station, and want of regular education, 
that he obtained notice at first for his productions, 
there are many in these days who set up, not alone 
for simple authors in prose or rhyme, but as cri- 
tics by profession, upon a much smaller stock of 
book-knowledge than Taylor the Water-Poet had 
laid in. Hear his account of his own studies ! 

" I care to get good books, and I take heed 
And care what I do either write or read ; 
Though some through ignorance, and some through 

spite, 
Have said that I can neither read nor write. 
But though my lines no scholarship proclaim. 
Yet I at learning have a kind of aim ; 
And I have gathered much good observations. 
From many human and Divine translations. 



26 TAYLOR TPIE WATER POET. 

The Poet* Quid, (or Ovid if you will,) 
Being in English, much hath helpt my skill. 
And Homer too, and Virgil I have seen, 
And reading them I have much bettered been. 
Godfrey of BuUoyne, well by Fairfax done; 
Du Bartas, that much love hath rightly won ; 
Old Chaucer, Sidney, Spenser, Daniel, Nash, — 
I dipt my finger where they used to wash. 
As I have read these poets I liave noted 
Much good, which in my memory is quoted. 

Of histories I have perused some store. 

As no mg,n of my function hath done more. 

The Golden Legend I did overtoss. 

And found the gold mixt with a deal of dross. 

I have read Plutarch's Morals and his Lives, 

And like a bee suckt honey from those hives. 

Josephus of the Jews, Knowles of the Turks, 

Marcus Aurelius, and Guevara's works ; 

Lloyd, Grimstone, Montaigne, and Suetonius, 

Agrippa, whom some call Cornelius, 

Grave Seneca and Cambden, Purchas, Speed, 

Old monumental Fox and Holinshed ; 

And that sole Book of Books which God hath given, 

The blest eternal Testaments of Heaven, 

That I have read, and I with care confess. 

Myself unworthy of such happiness." 

The subject of his reading is one which he was 

* Some jest is, 1 suppose, intended, which 1 cannot explain ; — or, 
perhaps, it is pretended, to fill up the line. 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. ^7 

evidently pleased with referring to, though he took 
care to ground his best claims for indulgence upon 
his " natural art." Wherefore, he says, — 

— " do I take a scholar's part, 



That have no ground or axioms of art ; 

That am in poesy an artless creature, 

That have no learning but the Book of Nature, 

No academical poetic strains. 

But homespun medley of my motley brains." 

The first person who patronised him he ad- 
dresses as " the Right Worshipful and my ever 
respected Mr. John Moray, Esquire :" — probably, 
the same " Mr. John Murray, of the bed-chamber 
to the king," whom Bacon calls his very good friend. 
Taylor has addressed this sonnet to him, and pre- 
fixed it to the earliest of his multifarious produc- 
tions : 

" Of all the wonders this vile world includes, 
I muse how flattery such high favours gain ; 
How adulation cunningly deludes 
Both high and low, from sceptre to the swain. 
But if that thou by flattery couldst obtain 
More than the most that is possest by men, 
Thou canst not tune thy tongue to falsehood's 

strain ; 
Yet with the best canst use both tongue and pen. 
Thy sacred learning can both scan and ken • 



28 TAYLOR THE WATER POET* 

The hidden things of Nature and of Art. 
'Tis thou hast raised me from Obhvion's den, 
And made my muse from obscure sleep to start. 
Unto thy wisdom's censure I commit 
This first-born issue of my worthless wit." 

This first-born had an odd name ; he called it, in 
Tayloric style, " Taylor's Water- Work; or the 
Sculler's Travels from Tyber to Thames ; with his 
boat laden with a Hotch-potch, or gallimaufrey of 
Sonnets, Satires, and Epigrams. With an ink- 
horn disputation betwixt a Lawyer and a Poet; 
and a quarterne of new catched Epigrams, caught 
the last fishing-tide ; together with an addition of 
Pastoral Equivoques, or the Complaint of a Shep- 
herd. Dedicated to neither Monarch nor Miser, 
Keaser nor CaitiiF, Palatine nor Plebeian, but to 
great Mounsier Multitude, alias All, or Every 
One." 

The manner in which he published his books, 
which were separately of little bulk, was to print 
them at his own cost, make presents of them, and 
then hope for " sweet remuneration" from the 
persons whom he had thus delighted to honour. 
This mode of publication was not regarded in 
those days so close akin to mendicity as it would 
now be deemed ; pectmiary gifts of trifling amount 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 29 

being then given and accepted, where it would now 
be deemed an insuh to offer and a disgrace to re- 
ceive them. The method, however, did not always 
answer, and Taylor complains to this effect, though 
rather for others than for himself He says, — 

" Yet to excuse the writers that now write, 
Because they bring no better things to light, 
'Tis because Bounty from the world has fled ; 
True Liberality is almost dead: 
Reward is lodged in dark oblivion deep, 
Bewitch'd, I think, into an endless sleep ; 
That though a man in study take great pains, 
And empt his veins and pulverize his brains, 
To write a poem well, which being writ 
With all his judgement, reason, art, and wit. 
He at his own charge print, and pay for all. 
And give away most free and liberal. 
Two, three, or four, or five hundred books, 
For his reward he shall have — nods and looks ; 
That all the profit a man's pains shall get. 
Will not suffice one meal to feed a cat. 
Yet noble Westminster, thou still art free, 
And for thy bounty I am bound to thee ; 
For hadst not thou and thy inhabitants, 
From time to time, relieved and help'd my wants, 
I had long since bid poetry adieu ; 
And therefore still my thanks shall be to you. 



30 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

Next to the Court in general, I am bound 
To you, for many frfendsliips I have found. 
There, when my purse hath often wanted bait 
To fill or feed it, I have had receit." 

Ben Jonson is one of the persons to whom he 
declares himself " much obliged for many unde- 
served courtesies received from him, and from 
others by his favour." And in a Dedication to 
Charles I. he says, "My gracious Sovereign, your 
Majesty's poor undeserved servant, having formerly 
oftentimes presented to your Highness many such 
pamphlets, the best fruits of my lean and steril 
invention, always your princely affability and bounty 
did express and manifest your royal and generous 
disposition; and your gracious father, of ever- 
blessed and famous memory, did not only like and 
encourage, but also more than reward the barren 
gleanings of my poetical inventions." His Funeral 
Elegy, which he calls " A Living Sadness, duly 
consecrated to the Immortal Memory" of this "all- 
beloved sovereign Lord, the Peerless Paragon of 
Princes," concludes with these lines, addressed to 
all who read the poem. 

" I boast not; but his Majesty that's dead 
Was many times well pleased ray lines to read, 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 31 

And every line, word, syllable, and letter, 
Were by his reading graced and made better ; 
And howsoever they were, good or ill, 
His bounty showed he did accept them still. 
He was so good and gracious unto me, 
That I the vilest wretch on earth should be. 
If for his sake I had not writ this verse, 
My last poor duty to his royal hearse. 
Two causes made me this sad poem write ; 
The first my humble duty did invite, 
The last, to shun that vice which doth include 
All other vices, foul ingratitude." 

The Earl of Holdernesse was one of his good 
patrons, and moved King James to bestow a place 
upon him. What this place was does not appear 
in his writings, nor have his biographers stated: 
one office, which must have been much to his liking, 
he held at the Tower, by appointment of Sir Wil- 
liam Wade ; it was that of receiving for the lieu- 
tenant his perquisite of " two black leathern bot- 
tles or bombards of wine," (being in quantity six 
gallons,) from every ship that brought wine into 
the river Thames, a custom which had continued 
at that time more than 800 years. This was a 
prosperous part of Taylor's life, and if he did 
not write like Homer in those days, it was not 



32 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

for any failure in drinking like Agamemnon. He 

says — 

" Ten years almost the place I did retain, 
And gleaned great Bacchus' blood from France 

and Spain ; 
Few ships my visitation did escape, 
That brought the sprightful liquor of the grape : 
My bottles and myself did oft agree, 
Full to the top, all merry came we three ! 
Yet always 'twas my chance, in Bacchus' spite, 
To come into the Tower unfox'd, upright." 

But the spirit of reform was abroad r the mer- 
chants complained that the bottles were made 
bigger than they used to be, and " waged law" 
with the lieutenant ; and had it not been for the 
Wine-Poet's exertions, in finding and bringing 
into court those witnesses, who could swear to the 
size of the bottles for fifty years, they would have 
carried their cause. Poor Taylor was ill-rewarded 
for his services ; no sooner had he established the 
right, than the ofiice which he had held was put 
to sale, and he was discharged because he would 
not buy it. " I would not," he says, " or durst 
not, venture upon so unhonest a novelty, it being 
sold indeed at so high a rate, that whoso bought 
it must pay thrice the value of it." 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 33 

*' O bottles, bottles, bottles, bottles, bottles ! 
Plato's divine works, nor great Aristotle's, 
Did ne'er make mention, that a gift so royal 
Was ever bought and sold!" 

He alludes to a loss of a different kind, in his 
" Navy of Ships and other vessels that have the 
art to sail by land as well as by sea," the names of 
these vessels being the Lord-ship, the Scholar- 
ship, the Lady-ship, the Goodfellow-ship, the Ap- 
prentice-ship, the Court-ship, the Friend-ship, the 
Fellow-ship, the Footman-ship, the Horseman- 
ship, the Surety-ship, the Wor-ship, and the Wood- 
man-ship. In this tract there is some wholesome 
satire, and abundance of wit. The ship which 
he had been unlucky enough to embark in in 
this fleet, was the Surety-ship, of which he says, 
" she is so easy to be boarded, that a man need 
not trouble his feet to enter her, or use any boat 
to come to her, — only a dash with a pen, the 
writing of a man's name, passing his word, or set- 
ting his mark (though it be but the form of a pair 
of pot-hooks, a cross, a crooked billet, or a ^ for 
John Thompson,) any of these facile ways hath 
shipt a man into the Surety-ship during his life, 
and his heirs after him ; and though the entrance 
into her be so easy, yet she is so full of imperti- 
nent and needy courtesy, that many men will lend 

D 



34 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

a hand into her, with more fair intreaties, requests, 
and invitations, than are commonly used to a mask at 
the court, or a groce of gossips in the country ; and 
being once entered, a tenpenny nail, driven to the 
head, may as soon scape out of an oaken post, as a 
man may get ashore again. She is painted on the 
outside with vows and promises ; and within her 
are the stories of the tattered Prodigal, eating 
husks with the swine, the picture of Niobe, with 
Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megasra, dancing lacrymcz; 
her arms are a goose-quill or pen couchant, in a 
sheep-skin field sable; the motto above, Noverint 
universi; the supporters, an usurer and a scrivener; 
the crest, a woodcock; the mantles, red wax, with 
this other motto beneath, sealed and delivered. 
This ship hath the art to make parchment the 
dearest stuff in the world ; for I have seen a piece 
little bigger than my two hands that hath cost a 
man a thousand pounds. I myself paid a hundred 
pounds once for a small rotten remnant of it. She 
is rigged most strangely ; her ropes and cables are 
conditions and obligations ; her anchors are leases 
forfeited; her lead and line are mortgages; her 
main-sails are interchangeable indentures; and her 
top-sails, bills and bonds; her small shot are ar- 
rests and actions ; her great ordnance are extents, 
outlawi'ies, and executions." 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 35 

Taylor's productions would not have been so 
numerous if he had not gained something by them. 
If any celebrated person died, he was ready with 
an elegy, and this sort of tribute always obtained 
the acknowledgment in expectation of which it was 
offered. But it is evident, that he delighted in 
acquiring knowledge, and took pleasure in compo- 
sition for its own sake, as in the exercise of a 
talent which he was proud to possess. His Me- 
morial of all the English monarchs, from Brute to 
King Charles, was probably composed as much 
for this motive as to impress upon his own me- 
mory the leading facts of English history ; then a 
set of miserable portraits cut in wood, without the 
shadow of resemblance till we come to bluff King 
Henry VIII., fitted it for popular and perhaps 
for profitable sale. It is, probably, from this bald 
and meagre chronicle in rhyme, which, for the 
subject, is likely to have been more common than 
any other of his tracts, that the commonly ex- 
pressed opinion of his writings has been drawn, 
as if they were wholly worthless, and not above 
the pitch of a bellman's verses. But a more inju- 
rious opinion has seldom been formed ; for Taylor 
had always words at will, and wit also when the 
subject admitted of its display. His account of 
J) 2 



36 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

the Books in the Old and New Testament, is in 
the same creeping strain. The best specimen of 
his historical verses is entitled God's Manifold 
Mercies in the Miraculous Deliverance of our 
Church of England, from the year 1565 until this 
present 1630, particularly and briefly described. 
This is in a series of what some late writers have 
conveniently called quatorzains,* to distinguish them 
from sonnets of proper structure : they are intro- 
duced thus : — 

*' There was a Bull in Rome was long a breeding, 
Which Bull proved little better than a Calf; 
Was sent to England for some better feeding, 
To fatten in his Holiness' behalf. 
The virtues that this Beast of Babel had 
In thundering manner was to bann and curse ; 
Rail at the Queen as it were raging mad ; 
Yet, God be thanked, she was ne'er the worse. 
The goodly sire of it was impious Pius ; 
He taught it learnedly to curse and bann ; 
And to our faces boldly to defy us 
It madly over England quickly ran. 
But what success it had, read more and see. 
The fruits of it here-underwritten be." 

* It is remarkable, that Mr. Wordsworth should have cast his 
Ecclesiastical Sketches in a form so nearly similar. The coincidence 
(for I know Mr. Wordsworth had never seen Taylor's works, nor 
heard of this portiop of them) may seem to show the peculiar fitness 
of this form for what may be called memorial poetry. 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 37 

" This bull did excommunicate and curse the 
queen; it deposed her from her crown; it pro- 
claimed her an heretic ; it cursed all such as 
loved her ; it threatened damnation to all subjects 
as durst obey her ; and it promised the kingdom of 
heaven to those that would oppose and kill her." 

He goes through the series of treasons which 
the bull produced, down to the Gunpowder-plot, 
and concludes with this Thanksgiving. 

" And last of all, with heart and hands erected, 
Thy Church doth magnify thy name, O Lord ! 
Thy Providence preserved, thy Power protected 
Thy planted Vine, according to thy word. 
My God ! what shall I render unto Thee, 
For all thy gifts bestowed on me always ? ' 

Love and unfeigned thankfulness shall be 
Ascribed for thy mercies, all my days. 
To Thee, my Priest, my Prophet, and my King, 
My Love, my Counsellor and Comforter, 
To Thee alone, I only praises sing, 
For only Thou art my Deliverer. 
All honour, glory, power, and praise, therefore, 
Ascribed be to Thee for evermore." 

These are no mean verses. Indeed, in every 
General Collection of the British Poets there are 
authors to be found, whose pretensions to a place 
there are much feebler than what might be ad- 



38 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

vanced on behalf of Taylor the Water Poet. Some- 
times he has imitated the strongly-marked manner 
of Josuah Silvester: sometimes, George Wither's 
pedestrian strain ; in admiring imitation of which 
latter poet, (and not with any hostile or envious 
feeling, as has somewhere been erroneously stated,) 
he composed a piece which he called Taylor's 
Motto, — the Motto, (which is his only opposition 
to Wither) being, Et habeo, et careo, et euro. 
There is in Wither, when in his saner mind and 
better mood, a felicity of expression, a tenderness 
of feeling, and an elevation of mind, far above the 
Water Poet's pitch ; nevertheless, Taylor's Motto 
is lively, curious, and characteristic, as well of the 
age as of the writer. It contains about fourteen 
hundred lines ; and he tells us, 

" This book was written (not that here I boast), 
Put hours together, in three days at most ; 
And give me but my breakfast, I'll maintain 
To write another ere I eat again ; 
But well, or ill, or howsoe'er it's penn'd, 
Like it as you list ; and so, I make an 

END." 

He has imitated Chaucer in a catalogue of 
birds, which though mostly a mere catalogue, has 
some sweet lines in it: and in other places he 
enumerates the names of rivers, the variety of 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 39 

diseases, and, more curiously and at greater length, 
the different trades and callings which were exer- 
cised in his days. Like poor Falconer, he made 
use also of his nautical vocabulary in verse. 

" You brave Neptimians, you saltwater crew, 
Sea-ploughing mariners, I speak to you : 
From hemp you for yourselves and others gain 
Your spritsail, foresail, topsail, and your main, 
Top, and top-gallant, and your mizen abaft, 
Your coursers, bonnets, drablers, fore and aft. 
The sheets, tacks, boliens, braces, halliers, tyes, 
Shrouds, ratlings, lanyards, tackles, lifts, and gies, 
Your martlines, ropeyarns, gaskets, and your stays. 
These for your use, small hemp-seed up doth raise : 
The buoy-rope, boat-rope, quest-rope, cat-rope, port- 
rope, 
The bucket-rope, the boat-rope, long or short rope, 
The entering-rope, the top-rope, and the rest, 
Which you that are acquainted with know best : 
The lines to sound within what depth you slide, 
Cables and hausers, by which ships do ride : 
All these, and many more than I can name. 
From this small seed, good industry doth frame. 
Ships, barks, hoys, drumlers, craires, boats, all would 

sink. 
But for the ocum caulk'd in every chink. 
The unmatched loadstone, and best figured maps. 
Might show where foreign countries are (perhaps) ; 



40 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

The compass (being rightly toucht) will show 

The thirty-two points where the winds do blow ; 

Men with the JacoVs staff, and Astrolobe 

May take the height and circuit of the globe : 

And sundry art-like instruments look clear 

In Vv^hat horizon, or what hemisphere 

Men sail in through the raging ruthless deep, 

And to what coast, such and such course to keep ; 

Guessing by the Arctic or Antarctic star, 

Climates and countries being ne'er so far. 

But what can these things be of price or worth, 

To know degrees, heights, depths, east, west, south, 

north. 
What are all these but shadows and vain hopes, 
If ships do either want their sails or ropes ? 

And now ere I offend, I must confess 
A little from my theme I will digress ; 
Striving in verse to show a lively form 
Of an impetuous gust or deadly storm. 
Where, uncontrolled, Hyperborean blasts 
Tears all to tatters, tacklings, sails, and masts ; 
Where boisterous puffs of Eurus breath did hiss. 
And 'mongst our shrouds and cordage widely whiz ; 
Where thundering Jove^ amidst his lightning flashing, 
Seem'd overwhelmed with Nepfunes mountain dash- 
ing ; 
Where glorious TitanWd. his burning light. 
Turning his bright meridian to black night ; 
Where blustering Eole blew confounding breath, 
And thunder's fearfull larum threatened death ; 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 41 

Where skies and seas, hail, wind, and slavering sleet, 

As if they all at once had meant to meet 

In fatal opposition, to expire 

The world, and unto Chaos back retire. 

Thus, while the Winds' and Sea's contending gods, 

In rough robustious fury are at odds, 

The beaten ship, tost like a forceless feather. 

Now up, now down, and no man knowing whither : 

The topmast some time tilting at the moon, 

And being up doth fall again as soon, 

With such precipitating low descent, 

As if to hell's black kingdom down she went. 

Poor ship that rudder on no steerage feels, 

Sober, yet worse than any drunkard reels, 

Unmanaged, guideless, too and fro she wallows, 

Which (seemingly) the angry billows swallows. 

A Storm. 

'Midst darkness, lightning, thunder, sleet, and rain. 
Remorseless winds and mercy- wanting main. 
Amazement, horror, dread from each man's face 
Had chased away life's blood, and in the place 
Was sad despair, with hair heaved up upright. 
With ashy visage, and with sad affright. 
As if grim death with his all-murdering dart. 
Had aiming been at each man's bloodless heart. 
Out cries the master, ' Lower the topsail, lower !' 
Then up aloft runs scrambling three or four, 
But yet for all their hurly burly hast, 
Ere they got up, down tumbles sail and mast. 



42 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

' Veer the main-sheet there,' then the master cried, 

* Let rise the fore-tack, on the larboard side : 
Take in the fore-sail, yare, good fellows, yare, 
Aluffe at helm there, — ware, no more, beware, 
Steer south-south-east there, I say ware no more, 
We are in danger of the leeward shore, 

Clear your main-brace, let go the bolein there. 
Port, port the helm hard, Romer, come no near. 
Sound, sound, heave, heave the lead, what dej)th, 
what depth?' 

* Fathom and a half, three all.' 

Then with a whiff, the winds again do puff. 

And then the master cries ' Aluff, aluff. 

Make ready the anchor, ready the anchor, hoa, 

Clear, clear the boigh-rope, steddy, well steer'd so ; 

Hale up the boat ; in sprit-sail there afore. 

Blow wind and burst, and then thou wilt give o'er. ' 

Aluff, clap helm a-lee, yea, yea, done, done, 

Down, down alow, into the hold quick run. 

There's a plank sprung, something in hold did break, 

Pump — ^bullies, — carpenters, quick stop the leak. 

Once heave the lead again, and sound abaffe.' 

' A shafnet less, seven all.' 

' Let fall the anchor then, let fall, 

Man, man the boat, a woat hale, up hale. 

Top your main yard a port, veer cable alow. 

Go w^ay a-head the boat there hoe, dee row, 

"Well pumpt, my hearts of gold, who says amends. 

East and by south, west and by north she wends, 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 43 

This was a weather with a witness here, 
But now we see the skies begin to clear, 
To dinner, hey, and let's at anchor ride, 
Till wind grows gentler, and a smoother tide.' 

" / think," he pursues in prose, " / have spoken 
Heathen Greek, Utopian, or Bermudian, to a great 
many of my readers in the description of this storm, hut 
indeed I wrote it only for the understanding mariner's 
reading. I did it three years since, and could notfnd a 
better place than this to insert it, or else it must have lain 
in silence.'' 

In this prose postcript Taylor alludes to some 
epitaphs in gibberish upon Tom Coryat the Od- 
combian, whose harmless eccentricities made him 
the butt of all wits and witlings, his contempora- 
ries. Sometimes he amused himself with verses 
of grandiloquous nonsense, — not that kind of non- 
sense which passes for sense and sublimity with 
the poet himself, and is introduced as such to the 
admiration of the world by some literary master 
of the ceremonies ; — but honest right rampant non- 
sense. 

" Think'st thou a wolf thrust through a sheepskin 
glove, 
Can make me take this goblin for a lamb ? 
Or that a crocodile in barley-broth 
Is not a dish to feast Don Belzebub ? 



44 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

Give me a medlar in a field of blue 
Wrapt up stigmatically in a dream, 
And I will send him to the gates of Dis, 
To cause him fetch a sword of massy chalk 
With which he won the fatal Theban field 
From Rome's great mitred metropolitan." 

Among his exhibitions of metre are some son- 
nets, as he calls them, composed upon one rhyme: 
one little piece in which all the lines rhyme upon 
Coriatf and another in which crudities is the key- 
word, — levelled against the same poor inoffensive 
humourist, who, ridiculous as he was, and liked 
to make himself, is nevertheless entitled to some 
respect for his enterprising spirit, his perseverance, 
and his acquirements ; and to some compassion 
for his fate. It may be more worthy of notice, 
that Hudibrastic rhymes are to be found in the 
Water-Poet's works : there may be earlier speci- 
mens, and probably are, for Taylor possessed an 
imitative rather than inventive talent; but this is 
the earliest that I have seen. 

Whether from this itch of imitation, or the love 
of adventure, or want of other employment, and 
the desire of gain, Taylor engaged at different 
times in expeditions which were characterised by 
some singularity, or some difficulty, and even 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 45 

danger. Such undertakings were not uncommon at 
that time. His *^ loving friend," Samuel Rowlands, 
in some verses addressed to him upon his, " Scul- 
ler's Travels from Tiber to Thames^" enumerates 
some of those which had attracted most notice. 

" Ferris gave cause of vulgar wonderment, 
When unto Bristow* in a boat he went : 
Another with his sculler ventured more, 
That rowed to Flushing from our English shore : 
Another did devise a wooden whale 
Which unto Calais did from Dover sail : 
Another with his oars and slender wherry 
From London unto Antwerp o'er did ferry : 
Another, maugre fickle fortune's teeth. 
Rowed hence to Scotland and arrived at Leith." 

These were all wagering adventures. The first 
which Taylor undertook (in the year 1616) he 
published an account of, with this title, " Taylor's 
Travels, three weeks, three days, and three hours' 
observations, from London to Hamburg, in Ger- 
many, amongst Jews and Gentiles ; with descrip- 
tions of Towns and Towers, Castles and Citadels, 
artificial Gallowses and natural Hangmen^ dedi- 
cated for the present to the absent Odcombian 

* A tract describing this adventure, and the honours with which 
the adventurers were entertained at Bristol, is noted in that very 
valuable repository of literary information, the British Bibliographer, 
vol. ii. 



46 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

knight errant, Sir Thomas Coriat, Great Britain's 
Error, and the world's Mirror." He had a brother 
settled in a town which he calls Buckaburgh, in 
the earldom of Schomberg; and the motive for 
this journey was to visit him: but he thought it 
might be turned to some account also, by finding 
persons who would receive money from him, and 
pay him back a larger sum if he performed the 
specified journey, and returned from it. I have to 
thank him for the story of Roprecht the Robber, 
which I found in his account of this journey. It 
seems that he made a second to the same coun- 
try, but there is only a bare intimation of this 
in the collected volume of his works. His third 
undertaking was to travel on foot from London to 
Edinburgh, " not carrying any money to or fro ; 
neither begging, borrowing, or asking meat, drink, 
or lodging." This he performed in 1618, and 
published an account of it in verse and prose, en- 
titled " The Pennyless Pilgrimage, or the Money- 
less Perambulation of John Taylor, alias the 
King's Majesty's Water-Poet." " This journey," 
says he, " was undertaken, neither in imitation or 
emulation of any man, but only devised by myself, 
on purpose to make trial of my friends, both in 
this kingdom of England and that of Scotland, and 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 4T 

because I would be an eye-witness of divers things 
which I had heard of that country. And whereas 
many shallow-brained critics do lay an aspersion 
on me that I was set on by others, or that I did 
undergo this project either in malice or mockery 
of Master Benjamin Jons on, I vow, by the faith of 
a Christian, that their imaginations are all wild; 
for he is a gentleman to whom I am so much 
obliged, for many undeserved courtesies that I 
have received from him, and from others by his 
favour, that I durst never to be so impudent or 
ingrateful, as either to suffer any man's persua- 
sions, or mine own instigation, to make me to make 
so bad a requital for so much goodness." 

The undertaking was no very arduous one, for 
he was at that time a well-known person: he 
counted (as appears by his own words) on his 
friends upon the road; he carried, in his tongue, a 
gift which, wherever he might be entertained, 
would be accepted as current payment for his 
entertainment ; and moreover, he had his man to 
accompany him, and a sumpter-beast well vic- 
tualled for the journey. 

*' There in my knapsack to pay hunger's fees, 
I had good bacon, bisket, neat's tongue, cheese, 



48 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

With roses, barberries, of each conserves, 
And mithridate that vigorous health preserves ; 
And, I intreat you take these words for no Hes, 
I had good aquavita, rosasolies. 
With sweet ambrosia, the gods' own drink, 
Most excellent gear for mortals, as I think ; 
Besides I had both vinegar and oil." 

Thus provided he set forth, baiting and lodging 
as he went with friend or acquaintance, or at the 
cost or invitation of good-natured strangers. He 

says — 

*' I made my legs my oars, and rowed by land." 

But he, and probably his man too, had been more 
used to ply their arms than their legs, for they 
were poor pedestrians ; and had nearly foundered 
by the time they reached Daventry. It had been 
a wet and windy day, and meeting with something 
like Tom Drum's entertainment from the hostess 
of the Horse-shoe in that town, who had " a great 
wart rampant on her snout," they were fain 

" to hobble seven miles more, 



The way to D unchurch, foul with dirt and mire, 
Able, I think, both man and horse to tire : 
On Dunsmore-heath, a hedge doth then enclose 
Grounds on the right-hand, there I did repose. 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 49 

Wit's whetstone, Want, then made us quickly learn, 
With knives to cut down rushes and green fern, 
Of which we made a field-bed in the field, 
Which sleep and rest and much content did yield. 
There with my mother Earth I thought it fit 
To lodge. — 

My bed was curtained with good wholesome airs, 
And being weary, I went up no stairs ; 
The sky my canopy ; bright Phoebe shin'd; 
Sweet bawling Zephyrus breath'd gentle wind ; 
In heaven's star-chamber I did lodge that night, 
Ten thousand stars me to my bed did light. 
There barricadoed with a bank lay we, 
Below the lofty branches of a tree. 
There my bedfellows and companions were, 
My man, my horse, a bull, four cows, two steer ; 
But yet for all this most confused rout. 
We had no bed-staves, yet we fell not out. 
Thus Nature, like an ancient free upholster. 
Did furnish us with bedstead, bed, and bolster ; 
And the kind skies (for which high Heaven be 

thanked !) 
Allowed us a large covering, and a blanket." 

Proceeding the next day " through plashes, 
puddles, thick, thin, wet, and dry," he reached 
Coventry, and was there entertained two or three 
days by Dr. Holland, the once well-known Phile- 
mon, who used, in translation, more paper and 

E 



50 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

fewer pens than any other writer before or since ; 
and who " would not let Suetonius be Tranquil- 
lus." After leaving him, he was welcomed at 
Lichfield by an acquaintance, who offered him 
money also, which it was against the bond to ac- 
cept, and supplied him with " good provant." The 
next day's was no pleasant journey. 

" That Wednesday I a weary way did pass, 
Rain, wind, stones, dirt, and dabbling dewy grass, 
With here and there a pelting scattered village, 
Which yielded me no charity or pillage ; 
For all the day, nor yet the night that follow'd, 
One drop of drink I am sure my gullet swallow'd. 
At night I came to a stony tow^n call'd Stone, 
Where I knew none, nor w^as I known of none. 
I therefore through the streets held on my pace, 
Some two miles farther, to some resting place. 
At last I spied a meadow newly m.owed, 
The hay was rotten, the ground half o'er-flowed : 
We made a breach and entered, horse and man, 
There our pavilion we to pitch began, 
Which we erected with green broom and hay, 
To expel the cold and keep the rain away ; 
The sky all muffled in a cloud 'gan lower, 
And presently there fell a mighty shower. 
Which without intermission down did pour 
From ten at night until the morning's four. 
We all this time close in our couch did lie, 
Which being well compacted kept us dry." 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 51 

Sir Urien Legh entertained him with right old 
hospitahty at Adlington, near Macclesfield, from 
the Thursday-night till Monday-noon, — having 
him at his own table ; though Taylor had not 
" shifted a shirt" since he left London. Sir Urien 
gave him a letter to his kinsman, Edmund Prest- 
witch, a good esquire, near Manchester ; there he 
was lodged and fed, and shaved, and his horse (for 
the second time) shod; and for this gentleman's 
sake he was sumptuously entertained by the peo- 
ple of Manchester, Mr. Prestwitch sending a man 
and horse to guide him, and bear his expenses 
through the county. But his recommendation 
sufficed in lieu of all charges at Manchester : the 
kindness which he there experienced, Taylor thus 
relates : — 

" Their loves they on the tenter-hooks did rack, 
Roast, boiled, baked, too-too-much, white, claret, 

sack ; 
Nothing they thought too heavy, or too hot, 
Cann followed cann, and pot succeeded pot. 
Thus what they could do, all they thought too little, 
Striving in love the traveller to whittle. 
We went into the house of one John Pinners, 
(A man that lives amongst a crew of sinners,) 
And there eight several sorts of ale we had, 
All able to make one stark drunk, or mad. 
e2 



52 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

But I with courage bravely flinched not, 

And gave the town leave to discharge the shot. 

We had at one time set upon the table, 

Good ale of Hyssop (tw^as no Esop-fable) : 

Then had we ale of Sage, and ale of Malt, 

And ale of Wormwood that could make one halt ; 

With ale of Rosemary, and of Bettony, 

And two ales more, or else I needs must lie. 

But to conclude this drinking aley tale, 

We had a sort of ale called Scurvy ale. 

Thus all these men at their own charge and cost 

Did strive whose love should be expressed most ; 

And farther to declare their boundless loves. 

They saw I wanted, and they gave me, gloves." 

The hostess, also, of the Eagle and Child, had 
his shirts and bands washed, and gave him twelve 
silk points. The same recommendation procured 
him a good reception at Preston, where he tarried 
three days, and protests that he never saw a town 
more wisely governed by the law. *' Kind Master 
Thomas Banister," the mayor, spent much cost 
and charge upon him, and rode with him at his de- 
parture two miles on his way. 

" There by good chance I did more friendship get. 
The under-shriefe of Lancashire we met, 
A gentleman that loved and knew me well, 
And one whose bounteous mind doth bear the bell. 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 53 

There, as if I had been a noted thief, 

The Mayor delivered me unto the Shriefe ; 

The Shriefe's authority did much prevail, 

He sent me unto one that kept the jail. 

Thus I, perambulating poor John Taylor, 

Was given from Mayor to Shriefe, from Shriefe to 

Jailor. 
The Jailor kept an inn, good beds, good cheer, 
Where, paying nothing, I found nothing dear. 
For the under- shriefe, kind Master Covill named, 
(A man for house-keeping renowned and famed,) 
Did cause the town of Lancaster afford 
Me welcome, as if I had been a lord." 

Master Covill sent a man with him to Sedbergh, 
which was two days' journey, and they scarcely 
missed an alehouse on the way, so liberal was the 
guide of his master's money. The next stage was 
to Master Edmund Branthwaite's, at Carling Hill. 
Branthwaite escorted him to Orton, where Master 
Corney, " a good true divine," was his host ; and 
Master Corney sent a man with him " o'er dale and 
down, who lodged and boarded him at Peereth 
(Penrith) town." There he found a volunteer guide 
for Carlisle ; but two miles wide of that city Sir 
John Dalstone entertained him. One might have 
hoped in these parts for a happy meeting between 
John Taylor and Barnabee, of immortal memory; 



54 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

indeed, it is likely that the Water-Poet and the 
Anti- Water-Poet were acquainted, and that the 
latter may have introduced him to his connections 
hereabout, Branthwaite being the same name as 
Brathwait, and Barnabee's brother having married 
a daughter of this Sir John Dalstone. He makes 
his acknowledgments also to Sir Henry Curwen, 
for good offices at Carlisle. Adam Robinson, who 
had been mayor of that city the preceding year, 
provided him with a guide to Edinburgh, which, 
of the many helps upon his journey, was the 
greatest. Having crost the border, he then pro- 
ceeds with his narrative in prose. 

He waded the Esk and the Annan, and reached 
MoiFatt in one day from Carlisle — " the weariest 
day's journey that ever he footed." The next day 
brought him one-and-twenty miles to a sorry vil- 
lage called Blithe ; " but I was blithe myself," he 
says, " to come to any place of harbour or suc- 
cour ; for since I was born I never was so weary, 
or so near being dead with extreme travel. I v/as 
foundered and refoundered of all four; and for 
my better comfort, I came so late, that I must 
lodge without doors all night, or else in a farm- 
house where the good wife lay in child-bed, her 
husband being from home, her own servant maid 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 55 

being her nurse ; a creature naturally compacted 
and artificially adorned with an incomparable 
homeliness." Hence it was but fifteen miles to 
Edinburgh, in which ^' wished, long-expected, an- 
cient, famous city," he came to take rest on the 
13th of August, having started from London on 
the 14th of July. 

" I entered like Pierce Pennyless, altogether 
moneyless, but, I thank God, not friendless; for, 
being there, for the time of my stay, I might bor- 
row — if any man would lend; spend — if I could 
get; beg — if I had the impudence; and steal — if 
I durst adventure the price of a hanging. But my 
purpose was to house my horse, and to suffer him 
and my apparel to lie in durance, or lavender, in- 
stead of litter, till such time as I could meet with 
some valiant friend that would desperately dis- 
burse. Walking thus down the street, (my body 
being tired with travel, and my mind attired with 
moody, muddy, Moor-ditch melancholy,) my con- 
templation did devoutly pray, that I might meet 
one or other to prey upon, being willing to take 
any slender acquaintance of any map whatsoever; 
viewing and circumviewing every man's face I met, 
as if I meant to draw his picture; but all my 
acquaintance was non est inventus: (pardon me. 



56 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

reader, that Latin is none of my own, I swear by 
Priscian's pericranium^ an oath which I have igno- 
rantly broken many times!) At last I resolved 
that the next gentleman that I met withal, should 
be acquaintance whether he would or no: and 
presently fixing mine eyes upon a gentleman-like 
object, I looked on him as if I would survey 
something through him, and make him my per- 
spective. And he much musing at my gazing, and 
I much gazing at his musing, at last he crossed 
the way and made toward me, and then I made 
down the street from him, leaving him to encoun- 
ter with my man, who came after me, leading my 
horse ; whom he thus accosted : ' My friend/ 
quoth he, * doth yonder gentleman' (meaning me) 
'know me, that he looks so wistly on me?' ' Truly 
Sir,' said my man, ' I think not: but my master is 
a stranger come from London, and would gladly 
meet some acquaintance to direct him where he 
may have lodging, and horse-meat.' Presently 
the gentleman (being of a generous disposition) 
overtook me, with unexpected and undeserved 
courtesy, brought me to a lodging, and caused my 
horse to be put into his own stable : whilst we, 
discoursing over a pint of Spanish, I related so 
much English to him, as made him lend me ten 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 57 

shillings : (his name was Master John Maxwell,) 
which money, I am sure, was the first that I han- 
dled after I came from out the walls of London." 

The gentleman who with so much good-nature 
allowed this acquaintanceship to be thus forced on 
him, walked about the city with him. Taylor had 
seen many fortresses in Germany, the Netherlands, 
Spain, and England, but all, he thought, must 
give place to Edinburgh Castle, both for strength 
and situation, and the High Street was " the fairest 
and goodliest" that ever his eyes beheld, as well as 
the largest that he had ever heard of; " the build- 
ings being all of squared stone, five, six, and seven 
stories high, and many bye-lanes and closes on 
each side of the way, wherein are gentlemen's 
houses, much fairer than the buildings in the High 
Sti*eet ; for in the High Street the merchants and 
tradesmen do dwell; but the gentlemen's mansions 
and goodliest houses are obscurely founded in the 
aforesaid lanes ; the walls are eight or ten feet 
thick, exceeding strong, not built for a day, a 
week, or a month, or a year, but from antiquity to 
posterity, for many ages." Here he soon found, 
or made, so many acquaintances, and those so 
liberal of their wine and ale, that he says, if any 
man had asked him a civil question every night be- 



58 taylor"the water poet. 

fore he went to bed, all the wit in his head could 
not have made him a sober answer. 

At length he met with Master Bernard Lindsay, 
one of the grooms of his Majesty's bedchamber: 
" he knew my estate was not guilty, because I 
brought no guilt with me, more than my sins, (and 
they would not pass current there): he therefore 
did replenish the vastity of my empty purse, and 
discharged a piece at me with two bullets of gold, 
each being in value worth eleven shillings, white 
money." He was now in the way of old court 
acquaintance, and here he gives us an anecdote of 
his life which well illustrates the utility and capa- 
city of the article of di'ess known in those days by 
the appellation of ti'unk-hose. 

" I went two miles from Leith, to a town called 
Burnt-Island, where I found many of my especial 
good fi'iends, as Master Robert Hay, one of the 
grooms of his Majesty's bedchamber; Master Da- 
vid Drummond, one of his gentlemen-pensioners ; 
Master Jam.es Acmooty, one of the grooms of the 
privy-chamber ; Captain Murray ; Sir Henry Wi- 
therington, knight; Captain Tyrie, and divers 
others : and there Master Hay, Master Drummond, 
and the good old Captain Murray, did very boun- 
tifully furnish me with gold for my expenses ; but 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 59 

I being at dinner with these aforesaid gentlemen, 
as we were discoursing, there befell a strange ac- 
cident, which I think worth the relating. 

" I know not upon what occasion they began to 

talk of being at sea in former times, and I (amongst 

the rest) said, I was at the taking of Cales : whereto 

an English gentleman replied, that he was the 

next good voyage after at the Islands. I answered 

him that I was there also. He demanded in what 

ship I was? I told him in the Rainbow of the 

Queen's : why (quoth he) do you not know me? 

I was in the same ship, and my name is Wither- 

ington. Sir, said I, I do remember the name well; 

but by reason that it is near two-and-twenty years 

since I saw you, I may well forget the knowledge 

of you. Well, said he, if you were in that ship, 

I pray you tell me some remarkable token that 

happened in the voyage ; whereupon I told him 

two or three tokens, which he did know to be true. 

Nay, then, said I, I will tell you another, which 

(perhaps) you have not forgotten. As our ship 

and the rest of the fleet did ride at anchor at the 

Isle of Flores, (one of the isles of the Azores,) 

there were some fourteen men and boys of our 

ship that for novelty would go ashore, and see 

what fruit the island did bear, and what entertain- 



60 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

ment it would yield us : so being landed, we went 
up and down and could find nothing but stones, 
heath, and moss, and we expected oranges, lemons, 
figs, musk-millions, and potatoes: in the mean 
space the wind did blow so stiff, and the sea was 
so extreme rough, that our ship-boat could not 
come to the land to fetch us, for fear she should 
be beaten in pieces against the rocks ; this conti- 
nued five days, so that we were almost famished 
for want of food ; but at the last, (I, squandering 
up and down,) by the providence of God, I hap- 
pened into a cave or poor habitation, where I 
found fifteen loaves of bread, each of the quantity 
of a penny loaf in England ; I, having a valiant 
stomach of the age of almost a hundred and twenty 
hours breeding, fell to, and ate two loaves and 
never said grace ; and as I was about to make a 
horse-loaf of the third loaf, I did put twelve of 
them into my breeches, and my sleeves, and so 
went mumbling out of the cave, leaning my back 
against a tree, when upon the sudden a gentle- 
man came to me, and said, friend, what are you 
eating ? Bread (quoth I). For God's sake, said 
he, give me some ! With that I put my hand into 
my breech, (being my best pantry,) and I gave him 
a loaf, which he received with many thanks, and 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 61 

said that if ever he could requite it he would. I 
had no sooner told this tale, but Sir Henry Wi- 
therington did acknowledge himself to be the 
man that I had given the loaf unto two-and-twenty 
years before ; where I found the proverb true, that 
men have more priviledge than mountains in meet- 
ing." 

Taylor now departed from Edinburgh, meaning 
to see Stirling Castle, visit his " honourable 
friends" the Earl of Marr and Sir William Mur- 
ray, Lord of Abercarney, and return in two days. 
But when he came to Stirling he found that these 
friends were gone to the great hunting in the 
Brea of Marr, and he was told, that if he made 
haste, he might perhaps overtake them at Brechin. 
When he reached Brechin, they had been gone 
four days. So taking another guide, after them he 
went, by " strange ways, over mountains and 
rocks, putting up the first night in the Laird of 
Eggel's land, at a house where the people could 
scarcely speak any Enghsh," and where, for the 
only time in Scotland, he was annoyed by the 
most unclean of six-legged insects, which he calls 
Irish musquitoes. Next day he travelled over 
Mount Skeene ; it was warm in the valley, " but 
when 1 came to the top," he says, " my teeth be- 



62 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

gan to dance in my head with cold, Hke virginals' 
jacks, and withal, a most familiar mist embraced 
me round, that I could not see through my length 
any way ; withal, it yielded so friendly a dew, that 
it did moisten through all my clothes." Up and 
down he estimated this hill at six miles, " the way 
so uneven, stoney, and full of bogs, quagmires, 
and long heath, that a dog with three legs would 
there outrun a horse with four." At night, " with 
extreme travail," he came to the place where he 
could see the Brae of Marr, " which is a large 
country, all composed of such mountains, that 
Shooter's Hill, Gad's Hill, Highgate Hill, Hamp- 
stead Hill, Birdtop Hill, or Malvern Hills, are but 
mole-hills in comparison, or like a liver or gizzard 
under a capon's wing, in respect of the altitude of 
their tops, or perpendicularity of their bottoms." 

Here he found his friends, with lords and ladies, 
and hundreds of knights, esquires, and followers, 
all in one habit, " as if Lycurgus had been there, 
and made laws of equality ; for at this annual hunt- 
ing, every one conformed to the habit of the high- 
landmen, who for the most part speak nothing but 
Irish, and in former times were those people which 
were called the Red-Shanks. Their habit is shoes 
with but one sole a-piece, stockings which they call 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 6S 

short-hose, made of a warm stuff of divers colours, 
which they call tartane; as forbreeches, many of them 
nor their forefathers, never wore any, but a jerkin 
of the same stuff that their hose is of, their garters 
being bands or wreathes of hay or straw, with a 
plaid about their shoulders, which is a mantle of 
divers colours, much finer and lighter stuff than 
their hose, with blue flat caps on their heads, a 
handkerchief knit with two knots about their 
necks, and thus were they attired. Now their 
weapons are long bows and forked arrows, swords 
and targets, harquebusses, muskets, dirks, and 
Loquhabor-axes ; with these arms I found many 
of them armed for the hunting. As for their attire, 
any man of what degree soever, that comes amongst 
them, must not disdain to wear it; for if they do, 
then they will disdain to hunt, or willingly to bring 
on their dogs : but if men be kind unto them and 
be in their habit, then are they conquered with 
kindness, and the sport will be plentiful." The 
Earl of Marr put the Water-Poet " into this shape," 
and after leaving his house he was twelve days 
" before he saw either house, corn-field, or habita- 
tion for any creature but deer, wild horses, wolves, 
and such like." There were, however, *' small 



64 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

cottages built on purpose to lodge in, which they 
call Lonquhards." 

Taylor fared plentifully at this noble hunting, 
and entered heartily into the sport. 

" I thank my good Lord Erskin, he commanded 
that I should always be lodged in his lodging, the 
kitchen being always on the side of a bank, many 
kettles and pots boiling, and many spits turning 
and winding, with great variety of cheer : as veni- 
son baked, sodden, roast and stewed ; beef, mutton, 
goats, kid, hares, fresh salmon, pidgeons, hens, 
capons, chickens, partridges, moorecoots, heath- 
cocks, caperkellies, and termagants ; good ale, sack, 
white, and claret, tent, (or allegant,) with most po- 
tent aquavitse. All these, and more than these we 
had continually, in superfluous abundance, caught 
by falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by my 
lord's tenants and purveyors to victual our camp, 
which consisteth of fourteen or fifteen hundred 
men and horses. The manner of the hunting is 
this: five or six hundi'ed men do rise early in the 
morning, and they do disperse themselves divers 
ways, and seven, eight, or ten miles compass, they 
do bring or chase in the deer in many herds, (two, 
three, or four hundi-ed in a herd,) to such and such 



TAYLOR THE WATER EOET. 65 

a place, as the noblemen shall appoint them ; then 
when day is come, the lords and gentlemen of their 
companies do ride or go to the said places, some- 
times wading up to the middle through bournes 
and rivers : and then they being come to the place, 
do he down on the ground till those foresaid scouts, 
which are called the Tinckhell, do bring down the 
deer. But as the proverb says of a bad cook, so 
these Tinckhell men do like their own fingers ; for 
besides their bows and arrows, which they carry 
with them, we can hear now and then an arque- 
buss or a musket go off, which they do seldom 
discharge in vain : then after we had stayed there 
three hours or thereabouts, we might perceive the 
deer appear on the hills round about us, (their 
heads making a show like a wood,) which being 
followed close by the Tinckhell, are chased down 
into the valley where we lay ; then all the valley 
on each side being waylaid with a hundred couple 
of strong Irish greyhounds, they are let loose as 
occasion serves upon the herd of deer, that with 
dogs, guns, arrows, dirks, and daggers, in the 
space of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain; 
which after are disposed of, some one way and 
some another, twenty and thirty miles, and more 
than enough left for us to make merry withal at 

F 



66 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

our rendezvous. I liked the sport so well, that I 
made these two sonnets following. 

" Why should I waste invention, to endite 
Ovidian fictions, or Olympian games ? 
My misty muse enlightened with more light, 
To a more noble pitch her aim she frames. 
I must relate to my great master, James, 
The Caledonian annual peaceful war ; 
How noble minds do eternize their fames, 
By martial meeting in the Brae of Marr : 
How thousand gallant spirits came near and far, 
With swords and targets, arrows, bows, and guns. 
That all the troop, to men of judgement, are 
The God of War's great never conquered sons. 
The sport is manly, yet none bleed but beasts, 
And last the victor on the vanquished feasts. 



If sport like this can on the mountains be. 
Where Phoebus' flames can never melt the snow, 
Then let who list delight in vales below ; 
Sky-kissing mountains pleasure are for me : 
What braver object can man's eye-sight see. 
Than noble, worshipful, and worthy wights. 
As if they were prepared for sundry fights. 
Yet all in sweet society agree ? 
Through heather, moss, 'mongst frogs and bogs and 

fogs, 
'Mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-battered hills, 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. b/ 

Hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and 

dogs, 
Where two hours' hunting fourscore fat deer kills. 
Lowland, your sports are low as is your seat ! 
The highland games and minds are high and great." 

" Being come to our lodgings, there was such 
baking, boiling, roasting, and stewing, as if Cook 
Ruffian had been there to have scalded the devil 
in his feathers : and after supper a fire of fir-wood 
as high as an indifferent may-pole ; for I assure 
you, that the Earl of Marr will give any man that 
is his friend, for thanks, as many fir-trees (that are 
as good as any ship's masts in England) as are 
worth (if they were in any place near the Thames, 
or any other portable river) the best earldom in 
England or Scotland either ; for I dare affirm, he 
hath as many growing there, as would serve for 
masts (from this time to the end of the world) for 
all the ships, caracks, hoyes, galleys, boats, drum- 
lers, barks, and water-crafts, that are now or can 
be in the world these forty years." 

After the hunt broke up he was entertained at 
Ruthen by the Lord of Engie, at Ballo Castle by 
the Laird of Graunt, at Tarnaway by the Earl of 
Murray, at Spinaye by the Bishop of Murray ; and 
by the Marquis of Huntley, at a sumptuous house 
f2 



68 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

of his, named the Bog of Geethe. And after five- 
and thirty days' hunting and travelUng, he returned 
to Edinburgh, those lords giving him gold to defray 
his charges on the journey. He stayed at Edin- 
burgh eight days, to recover " from falls and bruises 
received in the highland mountainous hunting." 
Many worthy gentlemen there suffered him neither 
to want wine nor good cheer. " At Leith," he 
says, " I found my long approved and assured 
good friend. Master Benjamin Johnson, at one 
Master John Stuart's house. I thank him for his 
great kindness towards me, for at my taking leave 
of him, he gave me a piece of gold of two-and- 
twenty shillings to drink his health in England, 
and, withal, willed me to remember his kind com- 
mendation to all his friends. So with a friendly 
farewell I left him, as well as I hope never to see 
him in a worse estate ; for he is amongst noblemen 
and gentlemen, that know his true worth and their 
honour, where with much respect and love he is 
worthily entertained." 

Being now to commence his journey home, ac- 
cording to the bond, he discharged his pockets of 
all the money he had at the port or gate called the 
Netherbows, and as he came pennyless within the 
walls, went moneyless out of them. But he had 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. O^ 

no meagre days, nor bivouacking at nights, on his 
homeward road ; for Master James Acmooty, with 
whom he presently fell in, was going to London, 
and for the sake of his company undertook that 
neither he nor his horse should want upon the 
way; an undeserved courtesy, of which Taylor 
says, his want persuaded his manners to ac- 
cept; not that he availed himself of it on the 
whole journey, for he overtook other friends at 
Newcastle, where Sir Henry Witherington gave 
him a bay mare, (because he would accept no 
money,) in requital for the loaf; he tried his own 
fortune from Topcliffe to York, and obtained let- 
ters for the rest of the way, or found acquaintance. 
His friends came to meet him at Islington, at the 
sign of the Maidenhead, when with all love he was 
entertained with much good cheer, and after supper 
they had a play of the Life and Death of Guy of 
Warwick, played by the Earl of Derby's men, and 
on the next morning, Oct. 15, he came to his house 
at London. 

" Thus did I neither spend, or beg, or ask, 
By any course, direct or indirectly ; 
But in each tittle I performed my task 
According to my bill most circumspectly." 



70 TAYLOR THE Vv^ATER POET. 

His next journey, which was also undertaken as 
a wagering adventure, was to Prague, in the year 
16^0. He pubhshed an account of it, more sua, in 
prose and verse. " The truth," he says, " is, that 
I did chiefly write it, because I am of much ac- 
quaintance, and cannot pass the streets but I am 
continually stayed by one or other, to know what 
news ; so that sometimes I am four hours before I 
can go the length of two pair of buts, where such 
nonsense or senseless questions are propounded to 
me, that calls many seeming wise men's wisdom in 
question, drawing aside the curtains of their un- 
derstandings, and laying their ignorance wide open. 
First, John Easy takes me, and holds me fast by 
the fist half an hour ; and will needs torture some 
news out of me from Spinola, whom I was never 
near by five hundred miles, for he is in the Pala- 
tinate country and I was in Bohemia. I am no 
sooner eased of him, but Gregory Gandergoose, an 
alderman of Gotham, catches me by the goll, de- 
manding if Bohemia be a great town, and whether 
there be any meat in it, and whether the last fleet 
of ships be arrived there." (You know, reader, that 
Prague might have been a sea-port, according to 
Corporal Trim.) " His mouth being stopt, a third 
examines me boldly what news from Vienna? 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 71 

where the Emperor's army is, and what the Duke of 
Bavaria doth? what is become of Count Buquoy? 
how fare all the Englishmen ? where lies the King 
of Bohemia's forces ? what Bethlem Gabor doth ? 
what tidings of Dampeier ? and such a tempest of 
inquisitions that almost shakes my patience in 
pieces. To ease myself of all which, I was en- 
forced to set pen to paper and let this poor pamph- 
let (my herald, or nuntius,) travel and talk, while I 
take my ease with silence. 

The Queen of Bohemia, who was then such in 
possession, and not in title alone, made him a par- 
taker of her bounty at Prague ; and he had her 
youngest son, Prince Rupert, in his arms, and 
brought away, to keep as a memorial of this ho- 
nour, the infant's shoes, 

" Lambskin they were, as white as innocence, 
(True patterns for the footsteps of a Prince,) 
And time will come, as I do hope in God, 
He that in childhood with these shoes was shod, 
Shall with his manly feet once trample down 
All Antichristian foes to his renown." 

Poor Taylor lived to see the prince employed in 
a very different war from what these lines antici- 
pated ! 

Two -years after this journey he made " a very 



72 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

merry wherry-ferry voyage from London to York." 
Being forced by sti'ess of weather to land at Cro- 
mer, the whole town was alarmed, he and his four 
men were supposed to be pirates, the constables 
took them into custody, and guards were set upon 
their wherry. 

" They did examine me, I answered then, 
I was John Taylor, and a waterman, 
And that my honest fellow Job, and I, 
Were servants to King James's Majesty ; 
How we to York upon a mart were bound, 
And that we landed fearing to be drown'd. 
When all this would not satisfy the crew, 
I freely ope'd my trunks, and bade them view. 
I showed them Books of Chronicles and Kings, 
Some prose, some verse, some idle sonnetings; 
1 showed them all my letters to the full. 
Some to York's Archbishop, and some to Hull." 

Nothing, however, would satisfy the people, till 
two magistrates, (Sir Austin Palgrave and Mr. 
Robert Kempe,) had examined these invaders. 
These gentlemen knew the Water-Poet by name, 
and had read some of his books ; they administered 
the oath of allegiance to him and his men, to con- 
tent the people, and gave him " corn and wine and 
lodging too ;" and he met then with as much assist- 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 73 

ance from the sailors there, as he had found inci- 
vility at first. He crossed the Wash with some 
danger, not knowing the place and having no pilot, 
and being caught in the Hyger. When he reached 
Boston he was glad to learn that the remainder of 
of his way might be performed by an inland navi- 
gation. Accordingly, he went up the Witham, 
fifty miles, to Lincoln, performing the distance in 
one day. 

*' From thence we passed a ditch of weeds and mud, 

Which they do (falsely) there call Forcedike Flood, 

For ril be sworn no flood I could find there, 

But dirt and filth which scarce my boat would bear : 

'Tis eight miles long, and there our pains was such, 

As all our travel did not seem so much. 

My men did wade, and draw the boat like horses, 

And scarce could tug her on with all our forces : 

Moil'd, toil'd, mired, tired, still labouring, ever doing. 

Yet were we nine long hours that eight miles going. 

At last when as the day was well nigh spent. 

We got from Forcedike's floodless flood to Trent." 

Down the Trent then they proceeded to Gains- 
borough, which they reached just " as the windows 
of the day did shut ;" and the next day entered the 
Humber, but instead of bending their course di- 
rectly for York, they went out of it to touch at 



/4l- TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

Hull, and had nearly been swamped on the way, 
an east wind raising such waves against a swift ebb 
tide, that he had never seen any thing like it before 
in the course of his waterman's life. 

He had letters to the mayor and other members 
of the corporation, as well as to private individuals, 
who were requested to make him welcome, and 
give him Hull cheese, which he says, " is much 
like a loaf out of a brewer's basket ; for it is com- 
posed of two simples, malt and water, in one com- 
pound, and is cousin-german to the mightiest ale in 
England." Hops not being mentioned in this 
compound, it seems that the distinction between 
ale and beer continued to be known in his time. 
Here he was received not merely like a man whose 
company was acceptable to every one who could 
obtain it, but as a person, also, whose visit did 
honour to the town. Mayor and Aldermen enter- 
tained him, and he was pleased, as well he might, 
with the prosperity and good order of a place, 
where relief was provided for all the helpless poor 
and work for all the rest. 

" Thanks, Mr. Mayor, for my bacon -gammon! 
Thanks, Roger Parker, for my small fresh salmon! 
'Twas excellent good ; and more the truth to tell ye, 
Boil'd with a fine plum-pudding in the belly. 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 75 

The sixth of August, well accompanied 

With best of townsmen to the water- side, 

There did I take my leave, and to my ship 

I with my drum and colours quickly skip : 

The one did dub-a-dub, and rumble brave, 

The ensign in the air did play and wave ; 

I launch'd, supposing all things had been done ; 

Bounce, from the Blockhouse, quoth a roaring gun ; 

And waving hats on both sides, with content, 

I cried adieu! adieu! and thence we went." 

That night he got to Cawood, and called the next 
day on the good old archbishop, Tobias Matthew, 
who gave him gold and made him dine at his own 
table, while his men made good cheer in the hall. 
After dinner they proceeded to York, so finishing 
tlieir adventure. He offered the boat, as in duty 
bound, he says, to the Lord Mayor, who after 
some deliberation declined the present. Taylor, 
therefore, found a purchaser for it. From the 
Mayor he got nothing but a cup of claret and some 
beer. He says, 

" I gave his lordship, in red gilded leather, 
A well-bound book of all my works together, 
Which he did take. 

" Here I make a full point, for I received not" a 



76 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

point in exchange." He then returned to London 
by land, and his Epilogue says, 

" Thus have I brought to end a work of pain, 
I wish it may requite me with some gain ; 
For well I wot the dangers where I ventured, 
No full-bagg'd man would ever durst have entered." 

In the ensuing year (1623) he made a similar 
voyage from London to Christ Church, in Hamp- 
shire, and so up the Avon to Salisbury, and this 
was " for toyle, travail, and danger," the worst and 
most difficult passage he had yet made. These 
desperate adventures did not answer the purpose 
for which they were undertaken, and he complains 
of this in what he calls (Taylorice) the Scourge of 
Baseness, a Kicksey Winsey, or a Lerry-Come- 
Twang. 

" I made my journey for no other ends 
But to get money and to try my friends. — 
They took a book worth twelve pence, and were 

bound 
To give a crown, an angel, or a pound, 
A noble, piece, or half-piece, — what they list : 
They past their words, or freely set their fist. 
Thus got I sixteen hundred hands and fifty, 
Which sum I did suppose was somewhat thrifty ; 
And now my youths with shifts and tricks and cavils. 
Above seven hundred, play the sharking javils." 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. i i 

Four thousand and five hundred books he had 
given out, he says, upon these impHed or expressed 
conditions ; they had cost him more than seven- 
score pounds, and his Scotch walk had been sport 
to the trouble of vainly tramping about in seeking 
what was his due. He had given out money as 
well as books. The censures which were past upon 
him, and others, who like him went dangerous 
voyages by sea in small wherries, for " tempting 
God by undertaking such perilous courses," he 
acknowledges were not undeserved, and said that 
in this way he had done his last. Yet, it appears, 
that after this he engaged in a more desperate 
adventure than any of the former, that of going 
from London to Queenborough in a paper boat, 
with two stock-fish tied to two canes for oars! 
Roger Bird, a vintner, was the principal in this 
mad enterprize. They took with them eight large 
and well-blown bladders, which were found neces- 
sary in the course of half an hour ; for before they 
had got three miles, the paper bottom fell to pieces, 
and they had only the skeleton of the boat to trust 
to, and their bladders, four on each side. There 
they sat, " within six inches of the brim." 

" Thousands of people all the shores did hide, 
And thousands more did meet us on the tide, 



78 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

With scullers, oars, with ship-boats and with barges, 
To gaze on us they put themselves to charges. 
Thus did we drive, and drive the time away. 
Till pitchy night had driven away the day. 
The sun unto the under world was fled, 
The moon was loth to rise, and kept her bed ; 
The stars did twinkle, but the ebon clouds 
Their light, our sight, obscures and overshrouds. 
The tossing billows made our boat to caper. 
Our paper form scarce being form of paper ; 
The water four miles broad, no oars to row ; 
Night dark, and where we were we did not know : 
And thus 'twixt doubt and fear, hope and despair, 
I fell to work, and Roger Bird to prayer ; 
. And as the surges up and down did heave us. 
He cried most fervently, good Lord, receive us!" 

Taylor tells us, honestly, that he prayed as 
much, but he worked at the same time, which the 
poor wineman was not waterman enough to do : 
and having been on the water from Saturday, "at 
evening tide," till Monday morning, they reached 
Queenborough ; and he says, being 



aland. 



I took my fellow Roger by the hand, 
And both of us, ere we two steps did go, 
Gave thanks to God that had preserved us so ; 
Confessing that his mercy us protected. 
When as we least deserved, and less expected." 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 79 

They arrived on the fair day, when the mayor 
entertained all comers with bread, beer, and 
oysters. They presented him with the skeleton of 
their boat, which 

" to glorify that town of Kent, 

He meant to hang up for a monument ;" 

but while he was feasting them, the country 
people tore it piecemeal, every man wishing to 
carry away a scrap as a memorial of this mad 
adventure. 

Taylor was engaged in a fly ting with Fennor, 
who seems to have been a rival of his own rank : 
the fashion of such contests in ribaldry prevailed a 
little before his time in France and in Scotland ; 
our literature has luckily escaped it, at least, I 
know not of any other example than the present. 
The circumstances which gave rise to it are related 
by the Water Poet, " to any that can read," in a 
short epistle prefixed to " Taylor's Revenge, or the 
Rhymer, William Fennor, firkt, ferreted, and finely 
fetcht over the coals." " Be it," he says, ^' known 
unto all men, that I, John Taylor, waterman, did 
agree with William Fennor, (who arrogantly and 
falsely entitles himself the King's Majesty's Rhym- 
ing Poet,) to answer me at a trial of wit, on the 



80 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

seventh of October last, (1614,) on the Hope stage, 
on the Bankside ; and the said Fennor received of 
me ten shillings in earnest of his coming to meet 
me; vrhereupon I caused a thousand bills to be 
printed, and divulged my name a thousand ways 
and more, giving my friends and divers of my 
acquaintance notice of this Bear-Garden banquet 
of dainty conceits ; and when the day came that 
the play should have been performed, the house 
being filled with a great audience, who had all 
spent their monies extraordinarily, then this com- 
panion for an ass ran away, and left me for a 
fool, amongst thousands of critical conjurors, where 
I was ill thought of by my friends, scorned by 
my foes; and in conclusion, in a greater puzzle 
than the blind bear in the midst of all her whip- 
broth. Besides the sum of twenty pounds in 
money, I lost my reputation amongst many, and 
gained disgrace instead of my better expectations. 
In revenge of which wrongs done unto me by the 
said rhyming rascal, I have written this invective 
against him ; chiefly because the ill-looking hound 
doth not confess he hath injured me; nor hath not 
so much honesty as to bring or send me my money 
that he took for earnest of me, but on the contrary 
part, he rails and abuses me with his calumnious 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 81 

tongue, and scandalizes me in all companies where 
he hears me nominated." 

The price of admission had been raised upon 
this occasion, and when the audience had exhausted 
their patience in waiting for Fennor, they vented 
their indignation upon Taylor, pelting as well as 
abusing him, with that cowardly brutality of which 
all mobs seem capable. The Water Poet in return 
sent out a volley of vituperative verse both against 
them and the defaulter ; and in the collected vo- 
lume of his works, he was just enough to in- 
sert Fennor's defence, " wherein the Waterman, 
John Taylor, is dasht, sowst, and finally fallen 
into the Thames, with his slanderous taxation, base 
imputations, scandalous accusations, and foul abo- 
minations, against his Majesty's Rhyming Poet." 
From this answer it appears that Fennor, who had 
obtained reputation enough as an improvisatore to 
exhibit before James I., had assented to Taylor's 
project, which was that they should perform a sort 
of drama between them, Taylor having " studied 
several humours in prose," and Fennor being to 
play his part extemporaneously in verse ; for which 
he required either " half the commodity thereof; 
or security for five pounds ; or else twenty shillings 
in hand, and the Test as the day afforded." He ex- 

G 



82 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

cused himself for his non-appearance by a lame 
story, and pom'ed out a volley of recriminative ri- 
baldry, which the Water Poet answered in the 
same strain. The common estimate of Taylor's 
writings seems to have been taken from these pieces, 
which are the worst, and from his Rhymed Chro- 
nicles, which are the most worthless of his produc- 
tions. 

He was a married man, and the ensuing lines 
may show that he " never accounted his marriage 
among his infelicities :" 

" I have a wife which I was wont to praise, 
But that was in my younger wooing days : 
And though she's neither shrew, nor sheep, I vow, 
With justice I cannot dispraise her now. 
She hath an instrument that's ever strung 
To exercise my patience on — her tongue : 
But past all question, and beyond all doubt, 
She'll ne'er infect my forehead with the gout. 
A married man, some say, hath two days gladness, 
And all his life else is a lingering sadness ; 
The one day's mirth is, when he first is married, 
The other's when his wife's to burying carried : 
One I have had, should I the t'other see, 
It could not be a day of mirth to me, 
For I, (as many have,) when I did woo, 
Myself in tying fast did not undo ; 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 83 

But I have by my long experience found 
I had been undone, had I not been bound. 
I have my bonds of marriage long enjoyed, 
And do not wish my obligation void." 

When the troublesxame on, the Water Poet, w^ho 
had often tasted of the royal bounty, was too ho- 
nest and too brave a man to turn with the tide; he 
left London, therefore, and retired to Oxford. He 
had formerly found shelter there during a plague, 
an account of which he published and dated from 
Oriel College. In one of his tracts he acknow- 
ledges that the very air of the colleges and schools^ 
the books he had read there, and the dictionaries 
he had pored upon, had much "illustrated, elevated, 
and illuminated his intellect ;" for he had " picked 
out here and there etymologies, expressions, expla- 
nations, and significations of hard words out of 
divers tongues." He now opened a victualling 
house there, and employed his pen against the 
Roundheads, and made himself, it is said, " much 
esteemed for his facetious company." Upon the 
surrender of Oxford and the ruin of the royal 
cause, he returned to Westminster, and kept a 
public house in Phoenix Alley, near Long Acre, 
where, after the King's death, he set up a Mourn- 
ing Crown for his sign. This, however, he found 
g2 



84- TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

it necessary to remove^ and then he hung up his 
own portrait in its stead. His health and spirits 
he retained to a good old age, and when more than 
seventy made a journey through Wales, in the 
year 1652, and published an account of it. Two 
years afterwards he died, at the age of seventy- 
four, and was buried in the church-yard of St. 
Paul's, Covent Garden. 

An epitaph was composed upon him somewhat 
in his own style : 

" Here lies the Water Poet, honest John, 
Who rowed in the streams of Helicon ; 
Where having many rocks and dangers past, 
He at the haven of Heaven arrived at last." 

There is a portrait of him bearing date 1655, by 
his nephew, who was a painter at Oxford, and 
presented it to the Bodleian, where it was thought 
not unworthy of a place. He is represented in a 
black scull-cap, and black gown or rather cloak. 
The countenance is described to me as one of 
" well-fed rotundity; the eyes small, with an 
expression of cunning, into which their natural 
shrewdness had probably been deteriorated by the 
painter; their colour seems to have been hazel: 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 85 

there is scarcely any appearance of eye-brows ; the 
Hps have a shght cast of playfulness or satire. 
The brow is wrinkled, and he is in the fashion of 
mustachios with a tuft of beard under the lip. The 
portrait now is, like the building in which it has 
thus long been preserved, in a state of rapid 
decay :" "I hope," says the friend to whom I am 
obliged for this account of it, " his verse is of a 
more durable quality: — for lit pictura poesis would 
annihilate him altogether." 

" All making, marring, never-turning Time, 
To all that is, is period and is prime ; 
Time wears out Fortune, Love, and Death, and 
Fame." 

So sung the Water Poet; — it wore out him, and 
is now wearing out his picture and his works ; and 
he is not one of those writers for whom a palin- 
genesia can be expected from their dust. Yet 
we have lately seen the whole of Herrick's poems 
republished, a coarse-minded and beastly writer, 
whose dunghill, when the few flowers that grew 
therein had been transplanted, ought never to have 
been disturbed. Those flowers indeed are beauti- 
ful and perennial; but they should have been 
removed from the filth and ordure in which they 



86 TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 

are embedded. There is nothing of John Taylor's 
which deserves preservation for its intrinsic merit 
alone, but in the collection of his pieces which I 
have perused there is a great deal to illustrate the 
manners of his age ; and as he lived more than 
twenty years after this collection was printed, and 
continued publishing till the last, there is probably 
much in his uncollected works also which for the 
same reason ought to be preserved. A curious and 
useful volume of selections might be formed from 
them. There are many perishing writers from 
whose otherwise worthless works it is much to be 
desired that excerpts of this kind should be made : 
a series of such would be not less valuable than the 
Harleian Miscellany or the Somers Tracts. 

If the Water Poet had been in a higher grade 
of society, and bred to some regular profession, he 
would probably have been a much less distin- 
guished person in his generation. No spoon could 
have suited his mouth so well as the wooden one 
to which he was born. His way of life was best 
suited to his character, nor could any regular edu- 
cation so fully have brought out the sort of talent 
which he possessed. Fortunately, also, he came 
into the world at the right time, and lived in an 
age when Kings and Queens condescended to notice 



TAYLOR THE WATER POET. 87 

him, nobles and archbishops admitted him to their 
table, and mayors and corporations received him 
with civic honours. The next of our uneducated 
poets was composed of very different clay, — and 
did not moisten it so well. 



( 88 ) 



STEPHEN DUCK. 

Stephen Duck was born at Great Charlton, a 
little village in Wiltshire, in the beginning of the 
last century. His parents were in the lowest rank 
of life; and as it was his hard hap to be complained 
of by the village schoolmaster for " taking his 
learning too fast, even faster than it could be be- 
stowed upon him," his poor mother took him from 
school and set him to the plough, " lest he should 
become too fine a gentleman for the family that 
produced him." He v/as a boy who, in old times, 
would have been noticed by the monks of the 
nearest monastery — would then have made his 
way to Oxford, or perhaps to Paris, as a begging 
scholar— have risen to be a bishop or mitred abbot 
— have done honour to his station, and have left 
behind him good works and a good name. In his 
own days, if he had met with timely patronage 
enough to have placed him at an endowed gram- 
mar school, as fair a career might have been opened 
to him in our Established Church; for he would 



STEPHEN DUCK. 89 

have deserved its honours, and some of its honours 
have always been awarded to desert, even in the 
worst times. 

Being from his fourteenth year wholly engaged 
in the lowest and hardest employments of a coun- 
try life, Stephen forgot almost all the little arith- 
metic he had learnt at school, and this made him 
uneasy, for " he had a certain longing after know- 
ledge." That uneasiness, however, was suspended 
by his longing for a wife also : it returned upon 
him, after an early marriage, when he had no time 
to spare, no books, and no money wherewith to 
purchase any. But in this case also love will find 
a way; he worked extra hours, and so obtained 
extra payment, which having so earned he might 
fairly appropriate to the meritorious object of im- 
proving himself. So he bought first a book of 
vulgar arithmetic, then one of decimals, and a third 
upon mensuration; and these he studied in those 
hours which could be spared from sleep, after the 
labours of the day. 

It appears that he met with little encouragement 
for his intellectual ambition from his wife, nor was 
it likely that he should. But by good fortune one 
of his acquaintance, who had been two or three 
years in service at London, came to reside at 



90 STEPHEN DUCK. 

Charlton, and brought with him a few books, 
which, being fond of reading, he had purchased in 
the great city. With him Stephen became inti- 
mate, and they used to read together, and talk over 
the points which they were thus led to think on. 
This was the greatest happiness of his life. " Their 
minds," says Spence, " were their own, neither 
improved nor spoiled by laying in a stock of learn- 
ing. They were, perhaps, equally well inclined to 
learn ; both struggling for a little knowledge ; and 
like a couple of rowers on the same bottom, while 
they were only striving perhaps which should out- 
do his companion, they were really each helping 
the other, and driving the boat on the faster. 

'' Perhaps you would be willing to know what 
books their little library consisted of. Milton, the 
Spectator, and Seneca, were his first favourites ; 
Telemachus, vrith another piece by the same hand, 
(the Demonstration of the Being of a God,) and 
Addison's Defence of Christianity, his next. They 
had an English Dictionary, and a sort of English 
Grammar ; an Ovid, of long standing with them, 
and a Bysshe's Art of Poetry, of later acquisition ; 
Seneca's Morals made the name of L'Estrange 
dear to them ; and, as I imagine, might occasion 
their getting his Josephus, in folio, which was the 



STEPHEN DUCK. 91 

largest purchase in their collection. They had 
one volume of Shakespeare with seven of his plays 
in it. Besides these, Stephen had read three or 
four other plays ; some of Epictetus, Waller, Dry- 
den's Virgil, Prior, Hudibras, Tom Brown, and 
the London Spy. With these helps," continues 
Spence, " Stephen is grown something of a poet 
and something of a philosopher. I find by him, 
that from his infancy he has had a cast in his mind 
towards poetry. He has delighted^ as far back as 
he can remember, in verses and in singing. He 
speaks of strange emotions that he has felt on the 
top-performances of the little choir of songsters in 
a country chancel ; and mentions his first hearing 
of an organ as a remarkable epocha of his life. 
He seems to be a pretty good judge too of a mu- 
sical line ; but I imagine that he does not hear 
verses in his mind as he repeats them. I don't 
know whether you understand me, I mean that his 
ideas of notes in a verse, and his manner of repeat- 
ing the same verse, are often different. For he 
points out an harmonious line well enough, and 
yet he generally spoils its harmony by his way of 
speaking it." 

Paradise Lost carried with it no doubt a strong 
recommendation in its subject, but it perplexed 



92 STEPHEN DUCK. 

him, and he read it twice or thrice with a Diction- 
ary, tudying it, as a studious youth goes through 
a Greek or Latin author. The Spectator, too, 
which he said improved his understanding more 
than any thing, taught him to appreciate some of 
the merits of that poem, and Spence says he could 
point out particular beauties which it required " a 
good keen eye to discover." He frequently took 
a volume of the Spectator with him to his work, 
and laboured harder than any one else, like a man 
engaged to work by the piece, that he might ho- 
nestly get half an hour for reading one of the 
numbers ; but by sitting down at such times incau- 
tiously in the sweat of his brow, he injured his 
health. The poems which he now and then met 
with in the Spectator " helped on his natural bent 
that way, and made him willing to try whether he 
could not do something in the same kind himself. 
This he could do while he was at work ; and he 
pleased himself so well that at last he began to 
venture these thoughts on paper. What he did of 
this kind was very inconsiderable ; only scattered 
thoughts, and generally not above four or five 
lines on the same subject; which, as there was 
nobody thereabouts that cared for verses, nor any 
body that could tell him whether they were good 



STEPHEN DUCK. 93 

or bad, he generally flung into the fire as soon as 
he had ple'ased himself enough in reading them." 

But though Stephen was too conscientious to 
neglect his work at any time for his studies, and 
consequently never gave his master cause for com- 
plaint, he was not so fortunate at home, where he 
had a person less considerate, if not less reasonable, 
to deal with. It was his lot at this time to be 
duck-peck'd by his lawful wife, who held herself 
to be lawful mistress also, and told all the neigh- 
bourhood that her husband dealt with the devil, or 
was going mad, for he did nothing but talk to 
himself and tell his fingers. Probably she ac- 
quitted the devil of any share in her husband's 
aberrations, and became reconciled to his conduct 
when she found that he began to be favourably 
noticed by persons in a higher station. The coun- 
try people, who had long talked of him as a 
scholar, began now to report that he could make 
verses, which was yet more surprising, according 
to their notions : a young Oxonian, Stanley by 
name, hearing this, sent for Stephen, and was so 
well satisfied with his conversation, as to desire 
that he would write him a letter in verse. He had 
never written what Spence calls a whole copy of 



94 STEPHEN DUCK. 

verses before ; but he now produced about fifty 
lines, of which the beginning is a fair specimen. 

'' Sir, 
I have, before the time prescribed by you, 
Exposed my weak production to your view ; 
Which may, I hope, have pardon at your hand, 
Because produced to hght by your command. 
Perhaps you might expect some finished ode, 
Or sacred song to sound the praise of God ; 
A glorious thought, and laudable ! But then, 
Think what illiterate poet guides the pen. 
Ill suit such tasks with one who holds the plough ; 
Such lofty subjects with a fate so low." 

These verses were shown to some of the neigh- 
bouring clergymen, and they, having inquired into 
his character and talked with him, encouraged him 
to go on, " and gave him some presents, which, 
as things stood then, were a great help to him." 
He then put together and completed some verses 
which he had commenced on Poverty. To Poverty, 
as his acquaintance and familiar guest, he says, 

" Thou art no formidable foe, 



Except to little souls who think thee so :" 
and after comparing the good and evil of affluent 



STEPHEN DUCK. 95 

circumstances and of narrow ones, he concludes 
thus :— 

" Since wealth can never make the vicious hlest, 
Nor poverty subdue the virtuous breast : 
Since both from Heaven's unerring hand are sent, 
Lord ! give me either, give me but content." 

Stephen's had been a wholesome course of read- 
ing ; though he had taken some pleasure in Tom 
Brown's Letters from the Dead, and the London 
Spy, he " did not much care to look into them," 
he said, after he became acquainted with the 
Spectator: he liked what little he had readof Epic- 
tetus, " but 'twas Seneca that had made him happy 
in his own mind." The gentlemen of the country 
began to notice him now, and the little presents 
he received from them " made him quite easy as 
to his circumstances." The only thing that he was 
then solicitous about, was how he might succeed 
as to the poetry he should be employed in ; this 
was his chief concern. But even this seemed 
to proceed not so much from any desire of fame 
as from a principle of gratitude ; or, as he ex- 
pressed it, his longing to please those friends that 
had been so generous to him. 

Mr. Stanley, who was now in holy orders, gave 



96 STEPHEN DUCK. 

him for a subject of his next poem, his own way of 
life, and showed his own judgment in so doing. 
Stephen, accordingly, composed the Thresher's 
Labour, which, in the collection of his pieces, is 
inscribed to his first patron. The picture of rural 
occupations, here drawn from the life, is very dif- 
ferent from what we find in pastorals ; but the truth 
of the description is not its only merit, for there 
are passages in it which would have done no dis- 
credit to more celebrated names. 

" Soon as the golden harvest quits the plain, 
And Ceres' gifts reward the farmer's pain, 
What corn each sheaf will yield, intent to hear, 
And guess from thence the profits of the year, 
He calls his reapers forth : around we stand 
With deep attention, waiting his command. 
To each our task he readily divides. 
And pointing to our dijfferent stations guides ; 
As he directs, to distant barns we go, 
Here two for wheat, and there for barley two. 
But first to show what he expects to find, 
These words, or words like these, disclose his mind : 
"So dry the corn was carried from the field. 
So easily 'twill thresh, so well 'twill yield, 
Sure large day's-works I well may hope for now. 
Come, strip and try; let's see what you can do!" 



STEPHEN DUCJC. 

Divested of our cloaths, with flail in hand, 
At proper distance, front to front we stand. 
And first the threshal's gently swung, to prove 
Whether with just exactness it will move : 
That once secure, we swiftly whirl them round, 
From the strong planks our crab-tree staves re- 
bound, 
And echoing barns return the rattling sound. 
Now in the air our knotty weapons fly. 
And now with equal force descend from high ; 
Down one, one up, so well they keep the time, 
The Cyclops' hammers could not truer chime ; 
Nor wdth more heavy strokes could Etna groan. 
When Vulcan forged the arms for Thetis' son. 
In briny streams our sweat descends apace. 
Drops from our locks, or trickles down our face. 
No intermission in our work we know ; 
The noisy threshal must for e^'er go. 
Their master absent, others safely play. 
The sleeping threshal does itself betray." 



"' Our eye beholds no pleasing object here. 
No chearful sound diverts our listening ear. 
The shepherd well may tune his voice to sing. 
Inspired with all the beauties of the spring. 
No fountains murmur here, no lambkins play, 
No linnets warble, and no fields look gay ; 
'Tis all a gloomy, melancholy scene. 
Fit only to provoke the Muse's spleen. 

H 



98 STEPHEN DUCK. 

When sooty pease we thresh, you scarce can know 
Our native colour, as from work we go : 
The sweat, the dust, and suffocating smoke, 
Make us so much hke Ethiopians look, 
We scare our wives, when evening brings us home, 
And frighted infants think the bugbear come. 
Week after week we this dull task pursue, 
Unless when winnowing days produce a new : 
A new, indeed, but frequently a w^orse 1 
The threshal yields but to the master's curse. 
He counts the bushels, counts how much a-day. 
Then swears we've idled half our time away ; 
' Why look ye, rogues, d'ye think that this will do ? 
Your neighbours thresh as much again as you.' " 

From this wdnter and spring work Stephen passes 
to his summer occupations. 

" Before the door our welcome master stands. 
Tells us the ripen'd grass requires our hands. 
The grateful tiding presently imparts 
Life to our looks, and spirits to our hearts. 
We wish the happy season may be fair ; 
And, joyful, long to breathe in opener air. 
This change of labour seems to give such ease, 
With thoughts of happiness ourselves we please. 
But, ah ! how rarely's happiness complete ! 
There's always bitter mingled with the sweet. 
When first the lark sings prologue to the day, 
We rise, admonish'd by his early lay ; 



STEPHEN DUCK. 99 

This new employ with eager haste to prove, 
This new employ, becomes so much our love. 
Alas! that human joys shou'd change so soon! 
Our morning pleasure turns to pain at noon. 
The birds salute us as to work we go, 
And with new life our bosoms seem to glow. 
On our right shoulder hangs the crooked blade, 
The weapon destined to uncloath the mead : 
Our left supports the whetstone, scrip, and beer, 
This for our scythes, and these ourselves to cheer. 
And now the field designed to try our might 
At length appears and meets our longing sight. 
The grass and ground we view with careful eyes, 
To see which way the best advantage lies ; 
And, hero-like, each claims the foremost place. 
At first our labour seems a sportive race : 
With rapid force our sharpen'd blades we drive, 
Strain every nerve, and blow for blow we give. 
All strive to vanquish, tho' the victor gains 
No other glory but the greatest pains. 
But when the scorching sun is mounted high. 
And no kind barns with friendly shade are nigh, 
Our weary scythes entangle in the grass, 
While streams of sweat run trickling down apace ; 
Our sportive labour we too late lament. 
And wish that strength again we vainly spent." 



" With heat and labour tir'd, our scythes we quit. 
Search out a shady tree, and down we sit : 
h2 



100 STEPHEN DUCK. 

From scrip and bottle hope new strength to gain ; 

But scrip and bottle too are tried in vain. 

Down our parch'd throats we scarce the bread can 

get, 
And, quite o'erspent with toil, but faintly eat ; 
Nor can the bottle only answer all ; 
The bottle and the beer are both too small. 
Time flows : again we rise from off the grass ; 
Again each mower takes his proper place ; 
Not eager now, as late, our strength to prove, 
But all contented regular to move. 
We often whet, and often view the sun ; 
As often wish his tedious race was run. 
At length he veils his purple face from sight, 
And bids the weary labourer good night. 
Homewards we move, but spent so much with toil, 
We slowly walk and rest at every stile. 
Our good expecting Vives, who think we stay. 
Got to the door, soon eye us in the way. 
Then from the pot the dumplin's catch'd in haste, 
And homely by its side the bacon placed; 
Supper and sleep by morn new strength supply. 
And out we set again, our work to try ; 
But not so early quite, nor quite so fast, 
As to our cost we did the morning past. 
Soon as the rising sun has drank the dew. 
Another scene is open to our view : 
Our master comes, and at his heels a throng 
Of prattling females, arm'd with rake and prong; 



STEPHEN DUCK. 



101 



Prepar'd, whilst he is here, to make his hay, 
Or, if he turns his back, prepared to play ; 
But here, or gone, sure of this comfort still ; 
Here's company, so they may chat their fill. 
Ah ! were their hands so active as their tongues, 
How nimbly then would move the rakes and prongs I 

*' The grass again is spread upon the ground. 
Till not a vacant place is to be found ; 
And while the parching sun-beams on it shine. 
The haymakers have time allowed to dine ; 
That soon dispatched, they still sit on the ground, 
And the brisk chat, renew^'d, afresh goes round. 
All talk at once ; but seeming all to fear. 
That w^hat they speak the rest wall hardly hear ; 
Till by degrees so high their notes they strain, 
A stander-by can nought distinguish plain. 
So loud's their speech, and so confused their noise. 
Scarce puzzled Echo can return the voice. 
Yet spite of this, they bravely all go on ; 
Each scorns to be, or seem to be, outdone. 
Meanwhile the changing sky begins to lour. 
And hollow winds proclaim a sudden shower ; 
The tattling crowd can scarce their garments gain, 
Before descends the thick impetuous rain; 
Their noisy prattle all at once is done, 
And to the hedge they soon for shelter run. 

" Thus have I seen, on a bright summer's day, 
On some green brake, a flock of sparrows play ; 



102 STEPHEN DUCK. 

From twig to twig, from bush to bush they fly, 
And with continued chirping fill the sky ; 
But on a sudden, if a storm appears, 
Their chirping noise no longer dins our ears ; 
They fly for shelter to the thickest bush ; 
There silent sit, and all at once is hush. 

"But better fate succeeds this rainy day, 
And little labour serves to make the hay. 
Fast as 'tis cut, so kindly shines the sun, 
Turn'd once or twice, the pleasing work is done. 
Next day the cocks appear in equal rows, 
Which the glad master in safe ricks bestows. 

" The spacious fields we now no longer range ; 
And yet, hard fate ! still work for work we change. 
Back to the barns we hastily are sent, 
Where lately so much time we pensive spent ; 
Not pensive now, we bless the friendly shade ; 
And to avoid the parching sun are glad. 
Yet little time w^e in the shade remain, 
Before our master calls vis forth again ; 
And says, ' for harvest now yourselves prepare ; 
The ripen'd harvest now demands your care. 
Get all things ready, and be quickly drest : 
Early next morn I shall disturb your rest.' 
Strict to his word, for scarce the dawn appears, 
Before his hasty summons fills our ears. 
His hasty summons we obey, and rise, 
While yet the stars are glimmering in the skies. 



STEPHEN DUCK. 103 

With him our guide, we to the wheat-field go, 
He to appoint, and we the work to do. 

' Ye reapers, cast your eyes around the field, 
And view the various scenes its beauties yield; 
Then look again with a more tender eye. 
To think how soon it must in ruin lie ! 
For, once set in, where'er our blows we deal, 
There's no resisting of the well-whet steel : 
But here or there, where*er our course we bend. 
Sure desolation does our steps attend. 

" The morning past, we sweat beneath the sun. 
And but uneasily our work goes on. 
Before us we perplexing thistles find. 
And corn blown adverse with the ruffling wind. 
Behind, our master waits : and if he spies 
One charitable ear, he grudging cries, 
' Ye scatter half your wages o'er the land :' 
Then scrapes the stubble with his greedy hand. 



" Let those who feast at ease on dainty fare 
Pity the reapers, who their feasts prepare : 
For toils scarce ever ceasing press us now ; 
Rest never does but on the sabbath show ; 
And barely that our masters will allow. 
Think what a painful life we daily lead; 
Each morning early rise, go late to bed : 
Nor when asleep are we secure from pain, 
We then perform our labours o'er again : 



} 



104 



STEPHEN DUCK. 



Our mimic fancy ever restless seems, 
And what we act awake she acts in dreams. 
Hard fate ! our labours even in sleep don't cease; 
Scarce Hercules e'er felt such toils as these ! 

But soon we rise the bearded crop again, 
Soon Phoebus' rays w^ell dry the golden grain. 
Pleas'd with the scene, our master glows with joy, 
Bids us for carrying all our force employ ; 
When straight, confusion o'er the field appears, 
And stunning clamours fill the workmen's ears ; 
The bells and clashing whips alternate sound, 
And rattling waggons thunder o'er the ground. 
The wheat, when carry'd, pease, and other grain, 
We soon secure, and leave a fruitless plain ; 
In noisy triumph the last load moves on, 
And loud huzzas proclaim the harvest done. 
Our master, joyful at the pleasing sight. 
Invites us all to feast with him at night, 
A table plentifully spread we find, 
And jugs of humming ale to cheer the mind; 
Which he, too generous, pushes round so fast, 
We think no toil's to come, nor mind the past. 
But the next morning soon reveals the cheat. 
When the same toils we must again repeat ; 
To the same barns must back again return, 
To labour there for room for next year's corn. 

Thus, as the year's revolving course goes round, 
No respite from our labour can be found : 



STEPHEN DUCK. 105 

Like Sisyphus, our work is never done : 
Continually rolls back the heavy stone. 
New growing labours still succeed the past ; 
And growing alw^ays new, must always last." 

This is the best specimen of Stephen Duck's 
productions in verse, and certainly the command of 
language and the skill in versification which it 
displays, manifest perseverance and ability which 
very well deserved the encouragement he met with. 
Mr. Stanley proposed to him, as a subject for his 
next attempt, the story of the Shunamite woman 
and her child, and this poem w^as thought by his 
patrons to be the best of his performances. He 
first wTOte it in blank verse, but upon reading it 
over he found that the language w^as not sublime 
enough to sustain the metre, and therefore he re- 
cast it in rhyme ; and though Milton w^as his fa- 
vourite poet, he never again attempted what he 
had good sense enough to perceive he was incapa- 
ble of performing as it ought to be done. '^ To 
know how much he deserves," says Spence, " one 
should converse with him, and hear on vv^hat rea- 
sons he omitted such a part ; why he shortens his 
stile in this place, and enlarges in that ; w^hence he 
has such a word, and whence such an idea." For 
Stephen made great use of his little reading, en- 



106 STEPHEN DUCK. 

riched his vocabulary by it, and imitated, yet not 
servilely, vrhat might be adapted to his subject. He 
also planned his compositions, and '^ thought over 
all the parts, as he intended to arrange them, be- 
fore he made the verses. For a poem of any 
length," the good poetry-professor remarks, " no 
doubt, 'tis as necessary to do this as it is to have a 
di'aft of a house before you go to building it ; and 
yet, I believe, the common run of our poets have 
generally thought themselves above it, or never 
thought of it at all." 

The Thresher now began to be so much talked 
of, that some knavish bookseller got together a 
collection of his verses, and published them for his 
own advantage, with what Stephen calls a very false 
account of the author, and a fictitious portrait of 
him, wherein he is represented with Milton in one 
hand and a flail in the other, coming fi'om the barn 
towards a table, on which pen, ink, and paper are 
lying ; pigs, poultry, and reapers, making up the 
rural accompaniments. But the Thresher's Labour 
had found its way to the Honourable Mrs. Clayton, 
a lady who was about the Queen's person; she 
showed it to the Queen, and Queen Caroline, with 
characteristic goodness, patronized the humble 
poet. He was invited to Windsor by her desire, 



STEPHEN DUCK. 107 

that he might be introduced to her; she settled 
thirty pounds a year upon him, which was then no 
poor provision, made him one of the yeomen of the 
guards, and soon afterwards gave him the more 
fitting appointment of keeper of her select library 
at Richmond, called Merlin's Cave, where he had 
apartments assigned him, and was encouraged to 
pursue his studies so as to qualify himself for ordi- 
nation in the Established Church. A volume of 
his verses was now published by subscription, and 
the names upon the list show with what zeal his 
friends had exerted themselves in the upper classes 
of society. Mr. Spence's account of the author was 
prefixed, and the volume was dedicated to the 
Queen, " as a humble tribute of duty, offered from 
a thankful heart to a gracious benefactress." He 
wrote a modest Preface, " to bespeak the reader's 
good nature, and to say something which might in- 
cline him to pardon what he could not commend. I 
have, indeed," said he, " but a poor defence to make 
for the things I have wrote : I do not think them 
good, and better judges will doubtless think worse 
of them than I do. Only this I may say of them, 
that if they have nothing to delight those who may 
chance to read them, they have nothing to give 
modesty a blush ; if nothing to entertain and im- 



108 STEPHEN DUCK. 

prove the mind, they have nothing to debauch 
and corrupt it. Another motive that I hope may- 
induce the reader to overlook the defects in this 
volume is, that the oldest poem in it is little more 
than six years of age ; and a considerable part of 
the time since that was writ, has been spent in 
endeavouring to learn a language of which I was 
then entirely ignorant." 

He then apologized for his presumption in having 
attempted some translations from Horace, saying, 
that when only endeavouring to understand, he 
found it difficult to conquer the temptation of imi- 
tating some of the thoughts, which " mightily 
pleased" him. ^* I have not myself," he says, 
" been so fond of writing as might be imagined 
from seeing so many things of mine as are got 
together in this book. Several of these are on 
subjects which were given me by persons to whom 
I have such great obligations, that I always thought 
their desires commands. My want of education 
will be too evident from them for me to mention it 
here. And I hope when the reader weighs my 
performances, he will put^A^r^ and other disadvan- 
tages into the scale. I would willingly here make 
known my obligations to those worthy persons who 
took notice of me in the midst of poverty and 



STEPHEN DUCK. 109 

labour, were I not afraid my gratitude, thus pub- 
licly expressed, would offend them more than my 
silence. However, I must beg leave to return my 
thanks to a Reverend Gentleman of Wiltshire, and 
to another of Winchester : the former made my life 
more comfortable as soon as he knew me ; the 
latter, after giving me several testimonies of his 
bounty and goodness, presented my first essays to 
a lady of quality attending the Queen, who made 
my low circumstances known to her Majesty. I 
hope, too, that all those honourable persons, whose 
names do me so much credit at the beginning of 
my book, will accept my acknowledgments and 
thanks for so liberal a subscription. And as this 
volume, I feel, will tell them they have not encou- 
raged a poet, I will endeavour to let them see they 
have been generous to an honest man." 

Swift, to his own discredit, wrote an ill-natured 
epigram upon him at this time : 

*' The thresher, Duck, could o'er the Queen prevail; 
The proverb says, no fence against a flail. 
From threshing corn, he turns to thresh his brains, 
For which her Majesty allows him grains; 
Tho' 'tis confest, that those who ever saw 
His poems, think them all not worth a straw. 
Thrice happy Duck, employed in threshing stubble ! 
Thy toil is lessened, and thy profits double." 



110 STEPHEN DUCK. 

The ill-will that called forth these lines was pro- 
bably towards the Queen; and Swift cared not what 
pain the expression of it might give to the modest 
and meritorious man against whom it was directed. 
But Stephen had now obtained efficient patrons as 
well as steady friends ; and he was in such reputa- 
tion that Lord Palmerston appropriated the rent of 
an acre of land, for ever, to provide a dinner and 
strong beer for the threshers of Charlton at a pub- 
lic-house in that valley, in honour of their former 
comrade. The dinner is given on the 30th of 
June. The poet himself was present at one of 
these anniversaries, probably the first, and speaks 
thus of it in a pleasing poem addressed to that 
nobleman. 

" Oft as this day returns shall Threshers claim 
Some hours of rest, sacred to Temple's name ; 
Oft as this day returns shall Temple cheer 
The Threshers' hearts with mutton, beef, and beer. 
Hence, when their children's children shall admire 
This holiday, and whence derived inquire, 
Some grateful father, partial to my fame, 
Shall thus describe from whence and how it came : — 
' Here, child, a Thresher liv'd in ancient days ; 
Quaint songs he sung and pleasing roundelays. 
A gracious Queen his sonnets did commend, 
And some great Lord, one Temple, was his friend. 



STEPHEN DUCK. Ill 

That Lord was pleased this holiday to make, 
And feast the Threshers for that Thresher s sake.' 
Thus shall tradition keep my fame alive ; 
The bard may die — the Thresher still survive." 

Having obtained orders, he was preferred to the 
living of Byfleet in Surrey. It has been said that 
this vi^as " a singular and absurd transition, and 
that his small knowledge of Latin was surely not 
enough to justify such an abuse of church patron- 
age." There can, however, be no doubt but that 
his attainments were such as fairly qualified him 
for this preferment ; nor would Spence, (himself in 
all respects an exemplary and excellent man,) by 
whose influence he obtained it, have recommended 
him, had it been otherwise. His character, his 
inclination, and his abilities, were alike suited to 
this way of life ; and he is said to have been much 
followed as a preacher, not only while novelty and 
his reputation were likely to attract congregations, 
but as long as he lived. 

His end was an unhappy one ; he became insane, 
threw himself into the water, near Reading, in 1756, 
and was drowned. Till that malady occurred he 
had been a useful parish priest, and approved himself 
every way worthy of the patronage which had been 
bestowed upon him. If the malady had shown 



112 STEPHEN DtlCK. 

itself earlier, it might have been ascribed to the tran- 
sition from a life of great bodily labour- to a sedentary 
one, and to excess in study; but as about thirty years 
had elapsed since he was taken from the barn, the 
cause is more likely to have been accidental, or con- 
stitutional. He had probably been always highly 
sensitive. Spence speaks of him as trembling when 
the scene betwen Hamlet and the Ghost was read 
to him. And he thus describes the effect produced 
upon him by the speeches of Antony over Caesar's 
body : " as I was reading to him, I observed that 
his countenance changed often in the most moving 
parts. His eye was quick and busy all the time, 
and I never saw applause, or the shifting of proper 
passions appear so strongly in any face as in his." 
It was a fine, strongly-marked countenance, with 
regular features ; but after his fate, the expression 
in his portrait which the artist intended for thought- 
fulness or inspiration, might easily be interpreted as 
denoting melancholy, and a tendency to madness. 

A catalogue of his books, as for sale, was pub- 
lished with those of two other persons soon after 
his decease. That they should have been numerous 
enough for this, implies that his love of reading had 
continued unabated, and that his circumstances had 
not been straitened. The kindness of his friends 



STEPHEN DUCK. 113 

at court did not cease at his death, and his daugh- 
ter was thus allowed to retain his apartments at 
Richmond. 

Stephen Duck seems never to have entertained 
an overweening opinion of his own genius. En- 
couraged as he was, he would have written more if 
he had not been conscious that his talents for 
poetry were rather imitative than inventive ; that 
he was incapable of imitating what he clearly saw 
was best ; and that it was not likely he could pro- 
duce any thing better than his first efforts. This 
is proof of his good sense. He was, indeed, a 
modest, diligent, studious, good man ; and the pa- 
tronage which he obtained is far more honour- 
able to the spirit of his age, than the temper, which 
may censure or ridicule it, can be to ours. 

Passing over the respectable name of Dodsley, 
because his poems and an account of his life are 
to be found in the General Collection of the Bri- 
tish Poets, the next writer of the self-taught class 
is—- 



( 114 ) 



JAMES WOODHOUSE, 

Of Rowley, near Hales-Oven, about seven miles 
from Birmingham, and two from the Leasowes. He 
was a village shoemaker, and though he had been 
taken from school at seven years old, had so far 
improved the little which he could possibly have 
learnt there, as to eke out his scanty means by 
teaching to read and wi'ite. He is first heard of 
at the age of three-and-twenty, and having then a 
wife and children. Shenstone had at that time 
found it necessary to forbid that general access to 
his grounds which he used to allow, so much mis- 
chief had wantonly been done there, — a disgrace- 
ful characteristic whereby the English populace 
are distinguished from those of any other country, 
and by which they injure themselves even more 
than they injure others, for they make it necessary 
to exclude them wherever they can be excluded. 
Woodhouse, upon this occasion, addressed some 
verses to him, entreating that he might be ex- 
empted from this prohibition, and permitted still to 
recreate himself and indulge his imagination in that 



JAMES WOODHOUSE. 115 

sweet scenery; and Shenstone, who was always 
benevolent and generous, when he had inquired 
into the character of the petitioner, admitted him 
not only into his grounds, but to the use of his 
Ubrary also. His whole reading till then had been 
in magazines. 

Shenstone found that the poor applicant used to 
work with a pen and ink at his side, while the last 
was in his lap ; — the head at one employ, the 
hands at another ; and when he had composed a 
couplet or a stanza, he wrote it on his knee. In 
one of the pieces thus composed, and entitled 
Spring, there are these affecting stanzas : — 

" But now domestic cares employ 
And busy every sense, 
Nor leave one hour of grief or joy 
But's furnish'd out from thence: 

Save what my Httle babes afford, 

Whom I behold with glee, 
When smiling at my humble board. 

Or prattling at my knee. 

Not that my Daphne's charms are flown, 
These still new pleasures bring, 

'Tis these inspire content alone ; 
'Tis all I've left of spring. 



116 ■ JAMES WOODHOUSE. 

I wish not, dear connubial state, 

To break thy silken bands ; 
I only blame relentless fate, 

That every hour demands. 

Nor mourn I much my task austere, 
Which endless wants impose ; 

But oh ! it wounds my soul to hear 
My Daphne's melting woes! 

For oft she sighs and oft she weeps, 

And hangs her pensive head, 
While blood her furrowed Jinger steeps, 

And stains the passing thread. 

When orient hills the sun behold, 

Our labours are begun : 
And when he streaks the west with gold, 

The task is still undone." 

These verses were pointed out to me, for their 
feeling and their truth, by the greatest poet of the 
age. 

In 1764, five years after this poor man's fortunate 
introduction to Shenstone, a collection of his poems 
was published for his benefit, in quarto, price three 
shillings. It appears from a piece addressed to 
Shenstone, upon his " Rural Elegance," that the 
books to which he now had access, and the models 
to which his patron had directed his attention, had 



JAMES WOODIIOUSE. 117 

induced him to write in a more ambitious strain, 
and aim at some of the artifices of versification. 



What! cannot He, who form'd the fount of light, 
And shining orbs that ornament the night ; 
Who hangs his silken curtains round the sky. 
And trims their skirts with fringe of every dye ; 
In sheets of radiance spreads the solar beams 
With softened lustre o'er the tranquil streams ; 
Or o'er the glittering surface softly flings 
The whispering winds with gently waving wings, 
While every kindled curl's resplendent rays 
Quick dart and drown in bright successive blaze ; 
Who dipt in countless greens the lawns and bowers. 
And touch'd with every tint the faultless flowers ; 
With beauty clothes each beast that roams the plain, 
And birds' rich plumes with ever -varied stain ; 
Each fair-scaled fish in watery regions known. 
And insect's robe that mocks the coloured stone ; 
Doth he not form the peasant's visual sphere 
To catch each charm that crowns the chequer'd year ; 
Construct his ear to seize the passing sound, 
From wind, or wave, or wing, or whistle round ; 
From breathing breeze, or tempest's aweful roar ; 
Soft lisping rills, or Ocean's thundering shore ; 
Unnumber'd notes that fill the echoing field. 
Or mingled minstrelsy the woodlands yield ; 
The melting strains and melodies of song 
That float, impassioned, from the human tongue ? 



118 JAMES WOODHOUSE. 

Or fondly feel each sound that sweetly slips 

Thro' ear to heart, from favourite lover's lips ; 

And trace the nicer harmony that springs 

From puny gnats' shrill-sounding treble wings ; 

Light fly's sharp counter ; bee's strong tenor tone ; 

Huge hornet's bass, and beetle's drowsy drone ; 

Grasshopper's open shake, quick twittering all the 
day. 

Or cricket's broken chirp, that chimes the night 

away ?" 

These lines are exti'acted, not from the original 
edition of his poems, but from a volume which he 
published after an interval of nearly forty years ; 
it is not unlikely, therefore, that they may have 
been altered during that interval, and, in the au- 
thor's opinion, improved by bringing them nearer 
to the fashion which was then in vogue. A pro- 
cess, indeed, is observable, both in the verses of 
Woodhouse and Stephen Duck, which might be 
looked for, as almost inevitable : they began by 
expressing their own thoughts and feelings, in 
their own language ; all which, owing to their 
stations in life, had a certain charm of freshness as 
well as truth ; but that attraction passes away when 
they begin to form their style upon some approved 
model, and they then produce just such verses as 



JAMES WOODHOUSE. 119 

any person, with a metrical ear, may be taught to 
make by a receipt. 

In this his second and last publication, the then 
forgotten author recalled attention to his name only 
by a modest motto : Sutor ultra crepidam. One 
passage may be selected, from many which show 
that he retained in an advanced age that love and 
enjoyment of natural beauties which were the means 
of obtaining for him Shenstone's friendly assist- 
ance. 

" Lovelier far than vernal flowers, 
The mushrooms shooting after showers ; 
That fear no more the fatal scythe, 
But proudly spread their bonnets blytlie. 
With coverings form'd of silk and snow. 

And lined with brightening pink below. 

* * * * 

But more the later fungus race, 
Begot by Phoebus' warm embrace 
In summer months on procreant earth. 
By damp September brought to birth ; 
That, just like Jove, produce their seed 
From teeming brain for future breed. 
Their forms and hues some solace yield, 
In wood, or wild, or humid field. 
Whose tapering stems, robust or light. 
Like columns catch the searching sight, 



120 JAMES WOODHOUSE. 

To claim remark where'er I roam, 

Supporting each a stately dome : 

Like fair mubrellas fm-l'd or spread, 

Display their many-colour'd head, 

Grey, pm*ple, yellow, white, or brown, 

Shap'd like War's shield or Prelate's crown, 

Like Freedom's cap, or Friar's cowl, 

Or China's bright inverted bowl ; 

And while their broadening disks unfold 

Gay silvery gills, or nets of gold, 

Beneath their shady-curtain'd cove. 

Perform all offices of love. 

In beauty chief, the eye to chain, 

'Mong whispering pines, or arid plain, 

A glittering group assembled stands. 

Like Elf's or Fay's embattled bands. 

Where every arm appears to wield 

With pigmy strength a giant shield, 

x\nd deeply dyed in sanguine gore. 

With brazen bosses studded o'er ; 

While magic Fancy's ear confounds 

The whistling winds with hostile sounds." 

When this volume was published (1803) the 
author v/as living near Norbury Park, where he 
seems to have found a generous friend in Mr. 
Locke. He w^as then above sixty-eight years of 
age ; I do not know w^hen he died. In his case, 
as in Stephen Duck's, the persons w^ho befriended 



JAMES WOODHOUSE. 121 

him had the satisfaction of knowing that their 
kindness was well bestowed. And if the talents 
which they brought into notice were not of a kind 
in either case to produce, under cultivation, extra- 
ordinary fruits, in both a deserving man was raised 
from poverty, and placed in circumstances favour- 
able to his moral and intellectual nature. 



( 122 ) 



JOHN BENNET. 

A FEW years after the publication of Woodhouse's 
first volume, another versifyer of the same calling 
appeared, whose name was John Bennet, and who 
worked as a journeyman shoemaker at Woodstock, 
where his father was parish clerk when Warton 
obtained the curacy of that town. Warton, who 
was remembered with affection by all who ever 
knew him, for his thorough good-nature, and the 
boyish hilarity which he retained through life, is 
said to have liked the father for his psalm-singing, 
and to have given the son some instruction for im- 
proving his rhymes. He seems to have rendered 
him greater service in assisting him to procure a 
very respectable list of subscribers. 

There is nothing in his poems which deserves 
to be extracted for its own sake : a few lines, which 
express some of the popular prejudices concerning 
the alteration of the style, may serve as a fair spe- 
cimen of their average merit, or rather demerit. 
An old man, conversing upon the subject on Christ- 
mas Eve, says — 

— " He should ne'er with true devotion pray 
Upon the morrow, call'd New Christmas Day. 



JOHN BENNET. 123 

Then tells of Glastonbury's holy thorn, 
That buds and blossoms on the blessed morn ; 
Sets forth at large when pleasing midnight peal 
On Christmas Eve the welcom'd season hail, 
Before the altered time, the flocks and kine 
At sound thereof felt impulse nigh divine ; 
And on their bended knees did straightway fall, 
E'er since the era of the sacred stall. 

" His dame then tells that her rosemary tree, 
Until the old season is from blooming free, 
But on that day is with new blossoms crown'd, 
And sheds its fragrant odours all around. 
Again the old man speaks his doubts and fears. 
How since that time he was perplexed with cares ; 
'Cause in those days, so lost, 'twas plainly seen, 
An holy sabbath day must intervene. 
Then talks it o'er how dear all sorts of food 
Did daily grow ; nor can he hold it good, 
But finds all things are worse since the altered time, 
Therefore condemns it for a heinous crime." 

Some things worthy of notice are incidentally 
mentioned in Bennet's verses: as that during a con- 
tested election for Oxfordshire, a zealous tallow- 
chandler made blue candles; and, that at Hampton- 
Gay, a village near the Cherwell, which he calls 
" great in yewy fame," there were the twelve apos- 
tles, flourishing in yew, Moses and Aaron, Susanna 



124 JOHN BENNET. 

and the elders, all in evergreen likenesses; and 
moreover, a coach and horses, with coachman and 
footmen. Bennet relates, also, and with a proper 
feeling, that if a traveller arrived at Woodstock on 
a Sunday, dm^ing chm^ch time, and expressed an 
inclination to pm'chase gloves or cutlery, for both 
which that town was famous, — 

" Lo! mes^ges are sent, 



To those well skill'd, the precious wares to vent; 
These, now at worship, clothed in ermined state, 
And bending underneath the ponderous weight 
Of magistracy, prayer and pomp resign, 
To offer sacrifice at Mammon's shrine : 
Yea, forthwith shun devotion as a crime, 
Like Felix, leaving till another time." 



( m5 ). 



ANN YEARSLEY. 

Ann Yearsley's is a melancholy story. She was 
first heard of in 1784, when some verses were 
shown to Miss Hannah More as the production of 
a poor illiterate woman who sold milk from door 
to door. " The story," says Miss More, " did 
not engage my faith, but the verses excited my 
attention; for, though incorrect, they breathed the 
genuine spirit of poetry, and were rendered still 
more interesting by a certain natural and strong- 
expression of misery, which seemed to fill the head 
and mind of the author. On making diligent in- 
quiry into her history and character, I found that 
she had been born and bred in her present humble 
station, and had never received the least education, 
except that her brother had taught her to write. 
Her mother, who was also a millf-woman, appears 
to have had sense and piety, and to have given 
an early tincture of religion to this poor woman's 
mind. She is about eight-and-twenty, was mar- 
ried very young to a man who is said to be honest 
and sober, but of a turn of mind very different 



r 



126 ANN YEARSLEY. 

from her own. Repeated losses and a numerous 
family, for they had six childi-en in seven years, 
reduced them very low; and the rigour of the last 
severe winter sunk them to the extremity of dis- 
tress. Her aged mother, her six little infants, and 
herself (expecting every hour to lie in) were ac- 
tually on the point of perishing, when the gentle- 
man (Mr. Vaughan,) so gratefully mentioned in 
her poems, providentially heard of their distress, 
which I am afraid she had too carefully concealed, 
and hastened to their relief. The poor woman 
and her children were preserved; but for the un- 
happy mother all assistance came too late; she had 
the joy to see it arrive, but it was a joy she was 
no longer able to bear, and it was more fatal to 
her than famine had been." This " left a settled 
impression of sorrow on Mrs. Yearsley's mind." 

" When I went to see her," Miss More con- 
tinues, " I observed a perfect simplicity in her 
manners, wdthout the least affectation or pretension 
of any kind, she neither attempted to raise my 
compassion by her distress, nor my admiration by 
her parts. But on a more familiar acquaintance, 
I have had reason to be surprised at the justness 
of her taste, the faculty I least expected to find in 
her. In truth, her remarks on the books she had 



ANN YEARSLEY. 127 

read are so accurate, and so consonant to the opi- 
nions of the best critics, that from this very cir- 
cumstance they would appear trite and common- 
place to any one who had been in habits of society ; 
for without having ever conversed with any body 
above her own level, she seems to possess the 
general principles of sound taste and just think- 
ing." She had read Paradise Lost and the Night 
Thoughts, and was well acquainted with both; 
Pope's Eloisa, a few of Shakespeare's plays, and 
a translation of the Georgics, which seems particu- 
larly to have delighted her. Some classical allu- 
sions in her verses she had taken from prints in a 
shop window,.. these gratuitous exhibitions, have, 
like bookstalls, contributed much to the delight 
and instruction of those upon whom the advantages 
of 'education would have been well bestowed. She 
had never seen a Dictionary, and knew nothing of 
grammatical rules. Her vocabulary therefore was 
that of the books which she had read, her syntax 
that of the ignorant and vulgar with whom she 
conversed. Miss More described her poems as 
like those of all unlettered poets, abounding in 
imagery, metaphor, and personification, her faults 
in that respect being rather those of superfluity 
than of want. " She thought her ear perfect, 



128 ANN YEARSLEY. 

and the structure of her blank verse so happy and 
so varied, as even to appear skilful. You will 
find her," she says, " often diffuse from redund- 
ancy, and oftener obscure from brevity ; but you 
will seldom find in her those inexplicable poetic 
sins, the false thought, the puerile conceit, the 
distorted image, and the incongruous metaphor, 
the common resources of bad poets, and the not 
uncommon blemishes of good ones." 

A small volume of her Poems was now published 
by subscription, the grosser inaccuracies of lan- 
guage having been corrected. Miss More was a 
most efficient as well as kind patroness ; and the 
volume in consequence went through a second and 
a third edition. " It is not intended," said that 
patroness, " to place her in such a state of inde- 
pendence as might seduce her to devote her time 
to the idleness of poetry. I hope she is convinced 
that the making of verses is not the great business 
of human life ; and that as a wife and a mother 
she has duties to fill, the smallest of which is of 
more value than the finest verses she can write. 
But as it has pleased God to give her these talents, 
may they not be made as instruments to mend her 
situation? Pressing as her distresses are, if I did 
not think her heart was rightly turned I should 



ANN YEARSLEY. 129 

be afraid of proposing such a measure, lest it 
should unsettle the sobriety of her mind, and, by 
exciting her vanity, indispose her for the laborious 
employments of her humble condition ; but it 
would be cruel to imagine that we cannot mend 
her fortune without impairing her virtue. For my 
own part I do not feel myself actuated by the idle 
vanity of a discoverer; for I confess that the ambi- 
tion of bringing to light a genius buried in obscu- 
rity, operates much less powerfully on my mind 
than the wish to rescue a meritorious woman from 
misery; for it is not fame, but bread, which I am 
anxious to secure to her." 

The sum of 350/. arising from the first edition 
of these poems, and the presents made by some of 
the subscribers, was placed in the funds in the 
names of Mrs. Montague and Miss Hannah More, 
as trustees, for the benefit of Mrs. Yearsley and 
her children. This occasioned an unfortunate 
difference between the authoress and her first be- 
nefactress. Mrs. Yearsley wished to be admitted 
as a joint-trustee, and that the money should be 
equally divided according to the number of her 
children, and subject to their demand as each ar- 
rived at the age of twenty-one. The latter part of 
the proposal was improvident, the former seemed 



130 ANN YEARSLEY. 

to imply a caution which, because it was felt to be 
unnecessary, was thought to be ungrateful. Some 
angry altercation ensued, and the acrimonious 
feelings thus excited were not soothed by the 
interference of friends on Mrs. Yearsley's behalf. 
It ended in a resignation of the trust, and in a 
lasting breach between the parties. The whole 
transaction was vexatious to Miss More, whose 
benevolent intentions ought not to have been 
misunderstood; and it was unfortunate for Mrs. 
Yearsley, who was now represented as a thankless 
and unworthy person, and who from that time 
considered as an enemy one who, but for this mis- 
understanding, would have continued to be her 
friend and faithful adviser. 

Mrs. Yearsley prefixed a narrative in vindication 
of herself to the fourth edition of her Poems in 
1786, and in the following year published a second 
collection by subscription. She now opened a 
Circulating Library at Bristol Hot Wells, but not 
upon a scale which could prove attractive, nor was 
the place one where much support was to be ex- 
pected. In 1791 she produced a tragedy called 
Earl Goodwin, which was represented with little 
success at the Bristol and Bath Theatres. And 
in 1795 she published the Royal Captives, an un- 



ANN YEARSLEY. 131 

finished novel, founded upon the mysterious story 
of the Iron Mask. " One of my motives," she 
says, " for pubhshing the work unfinished is, that 
the world may speak of me as I am, while I have 
power to hear. The clouds that hang over my 
fortunes intervene between me and the public; I 
incessantly struggle to dissipate them, and feel 
those struggles vain, and shall drop in the effort. 
This consolation I shall however bear with me to 
the verge of life, that to those who have guided 
me by the sacred and lambent flame of friendship, 
my memory will be dear." 

This book was noticed in the Monthly Review, 
with a better feeling than is usually found in pe- 
riodical criticisms. The unknown writer remark- 
ed the striking contrast between the strength of 
thought and the weakness of judgement which were 
apparent in the composition, " the almost con- 
tinued inflation of the style, and the frequent 
power of expression, the crude and disjointed 
manner in which the story was planned and pur- 
sued, and the occasional force discovered in the 
incidents, the characters, and the philosophy at 
which the authoress aimed. The incidents are 
generally improbable, not because events more 
strange and incredible have not happened, but be- 
k2 



132 ANN YEARSLEY. 

cause in the v»Titer's haste to produce great events 
she has neglected the minutiae which are necessary 
for that purpose. From the same mistake there 
is a want of progression in the story. Having 
related one striking incident which she has not 
possessed patience and judgement enough to pre- 
pare, she hurries forward to another, and thus 
robs each of that force which she has been so 
ardent to impart. — If the reader of these volumes 
has thought before, they will lead him to think 
again. Those who buy books will much more 
frequently buy worse than better; and those who 
love to encourage an enterprizing and, however 
abashed and subdued, no vulgar spirit, will not 
think their money ill bestowed." 

Mrs. Yearsley published one or two occasional 
poems before this, her last publication. The cul- 
ture which she received, such as it was, came too 
late; nor does she appear to have derived any 
other advantage from it than that it enabled her 
to write with common grammatical accuracy. 
With extraordinary talents, strong feelings, and 
an' ardent mind, she never produced a poem which 
found its way into any popular collection ; and very 
few passages can be extracted from her wi'itings 
which would have any other value than as indi- 



ANN YEARSLEY. 133 

eating powers which the possessor knew not how 
to employ. But it ought to be observed here, that 
I have never seen either her novel or her tragedy. 
The best lines which I have noticed are in her 
second publication. 

" Cruel the hand 



Which tears the veil of time from black dishonour ; 
Or, with the iron pen of Justice, cuts 
Her cypher on the scars of early shame.'' 

There is a like felicity of expression in these 
lines on the remembrance of her mother: — 

*' How oft with thee, w^hen life's keen tempest howl'd 
Around our heads, did I contented sit, 
Drinking the w^iser accents of thy tongue. 
Listless of threatening ill. My tender eye 
Was fix d on thine, inquisitively sad. 
Whilst thine was dim with sorrow : yet thy soul 
Betray'd no innate weakness, but resolv'd 
To tread thy sojourn calm and undismay'd." 

Flourishing reputations (of the gourd tribe) have 
been made by writers of much less feeling and less 
capability than are evident in these lines. Ann 
Yearsley, though gifted with voice, had no strain 
of her own whereby to be remembered, but she 
was no mocking-bird. 



134 ANN YEARSLEY. 

She died at Melksham in 1806. Her aiFairs 
had not been prosperous, and it has been said that 
she was deranged for some time before her death. 
I know not what foundation there may have been 
for this report, more than the probability that such 
an effect would be wrought upon a highly sensi- 
tive mind by embarrassments, disappointments, 
the sense of supposed injuries, and the perpetual 
consciousness that her powers, not having been 
kindlily developed, had failed to produce, what, 
under favourable circumstances, they could not 
have failed to bring forth. 

The temporary success of Mrs. Yearsley con- 
tributed to bring into notice another illiterate 
versifyer of the same city : this was 



( 135 ) 



I 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT, 

Who was born in Market Street, St. James's, 
Westminster, 1753. His father was a native of 
Bristol, and had been bred a tobacco-pipe-maker, 
the grandfather and all his family being of that 
business. Not liking the trade he removed to Lon- 
don, worked as a journeyman house painter, and 
married a servant maid, whose parents were poor 
honest hard-working people at Sunbury, When 
Bryant was about fourteen months old he was 
taken by these relations, who intended to keep him 
only while his mother was confined with a second 
infant; but they grew fond of the child, and he 
remained with them till he was five years old. He 
was then removed to London, and after a twelve- 
months stay was again taken back to Sunbury in 
a very ill state of health, which he himself always 
believed was occasioned by grief at his separation 
from the old people, who were remarkably fond of 
him, and whose affection had produced in him a 
corresponding love. " My mother," he says, " had 
at that time, besides me, my two sisters to look 



136 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

after, . . one of them quite an infant ; and as she 
also worked very hard at washing and ironing, it 
consequently did not lie in her way to give me a 
great deal of indulgence; but my grandmother 
unjustly suspected her of using me ill." There he 
recovered and remained till the year 1760, when 
his father, accepting a proposal to settle at Bristol, 
and there follow his original calling, removed 
thither with his family, and took with him this his 
eldest child. The boy was greatly affected at 
being a second time " torn from the worthy old 
people and his beloved Sunbury." He lost his 
health again, and it was but slowly that his con- 
stitution recovered from the effects of the change. 
He was put to school to an old woman, who taught 
him to read, and a year of such schooling was all 
that fell to his lot; for he was then kept at home 
and employed in packing up tobacco pipes for ex- 
portation. ^' I had now at intervals," he says, " a 
great deal of leisure ; yet though in the country I 
had been very fond of play, I retained but little 
inclination for it at this time. Indeed I was but 
ill fit to be in company with other boys ; for I was 
grown very deaf, and had besides acquired a kind 
of timidity and bashfulness, which together made 
me appear very foolish, and occasioned many 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 137 

people to set me down as little better than an 
idiot." 

The lessons at school had given him no love of 
reading. The first thing which he read with 
pleasure was the History of Joseph and his bre- 
thren, in an abridgment of the Book of Genesis, 
which his mother gave him. Other abridgments 
of the Scriptures delighted him so much, that at 
length he read the whole Bible; and could not, 
he says, help lamenting that he should have been 
" born in an age in which prophets, prodigies, 
and miracles, with the frequent visibility of God 
and angels, were not to be seen or expected." He 
acquired also at this time what he calls an immo- 
derate fondness for the wonderful, " preferring by 
far the stories of giants, fairies, magicians, or he- 
roes performing impossibilities, to any history or 
narrative that wore the face of truth." Some 
books of this description, the last of the black- 
letter race, " were part of the lumber of a set of 
dusty shelves" in his father's house. The only 
one which Bryant mentions is the Destruction 
of Troy, under which title old Caxton's work 
(the first book printed in the English language,) 
slightly modernized, so long ago that the very 



138 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

modernizations have an antiquated cast, entertained 
his boyhood, as some four-and-twenty years later 
it did mine. His father bought for him that ac- 
count of the Heathen Gods, from which magazine 
poets in former days derived their stock of classical 
knowledge; there he found quotations from Pope's 
Homer and Dryden's Virgil, which so pleased his 
ear and delighted his imagination, that he read 
them again and again, till he had most of them by 
heart. And at ten years old, when he was learn- 
ing to write, he tried to make verses. " I remem- 
ber," he says, *^ my mother's once laughing heartily 
upon finding an Invocation to the Muses, in one of 
my little attempts, the sublime and interesting sub- 
ject of which was — the description and character 
of our turnspit-dog. However, my father seemed 
to be pleased with my humour for rhyming, and 
would often read my fragments to his acquaint- 
ances. I was also very fond of pictures, particu- 
larly of landscapes, which I took great pleasure 
in attempting to draw, as by taking notice of the 
diminution of distant, and the foreshortening of 
oblique objects, in those lively representations of 
nature, I had obtained a little notion of perspec- 
tive. Many of my rude productions in this line 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 139 

likewise were, by the partiality of a father, sup- 
posed not totally destitute of merit, and were by 
him often shown as curiosities." 

He had another source of enjoyment in music, 
which he enjoyed the more, because, on the re- 
storation of his hearing, it came to him like the 
developement of a new sense. And he had op- 
portunities of enjoying it, for the father had some 
skill in music, was sometimes employed to play at 
the Assembly Room, and was acquainted with 
most of the Bath and Bristol musicians, who 
sometimes had their rehearsals at his house. See- 
ing the boy's inclination he thought of giving him 
some instructions, but ill days came on, which left 
him no time for any thing but hard and hopeless 
labour. Among the numerous families which the 
American war reduced to poverty and want, was that 
of this poor pipe-maker. Till the troubles which 
broke out about the Stamp Act commenced, his 
business had been a good one, and though he had 
a large family he was in tolerable circumstances, 
having sufficient for the day and no cause to be 
anxious for the morrow. He had then employed 
ten journey-people; the loss of his export trade 
compelled him to part with them all, and depend 



140 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

upon the labour of his own family, though out of 
nine children there were but four whose services 
could be of any use, and his profits soon became 
inadequate to support them. A trifling salary as 
one of the city trumpeters, and the office of Ex- 
change Keeper, which the Corporation afterwards 
gave him, and which added to his means ten 
pounds a year, enabled him to go on, but with 
difficulty; and it now became matter of complaint 
against poor Bryant, that he attended too much to 
his books and too little to his work. The occu- 
pation was one which he greatly disliked, for it 
had been his wish to go to sea: he acknowledges 
that he neglected his business, and that his parents 
had cause to be displeased with him on that score. 
At length they forbade him to read, except on 
Sundays. " But my mind," he says, " was ever 
among books. Natural philosophy, and particu- 
larly astronomy, began at this time to be the fa- 
vourite subject of my contemplation; but while 
my mind was busy, endeavouring to explain the 
mechanism of terrestrial nature, or soaring among 
the stars, the labour of my hands turned out to 
little amount ; the less so, as I was extraordinarily 
slow and awkward at my work, even when L did 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 141 

my best and set my mind most upon it, which I 
believe was owing to the very great dislike I ever 
had to the business." 

Sunday was now to him more than a day of rest; 
it was a day of recreation also; he was generally 
invited to dine and sup with a blind acquaintance 
of his father's, who was amused by hearing him 
read, procured books for that purpose, and gene- 
rally gave him twopence for this innocent Sabbath 
day's work. This money was all that he pos- 
sessed, and he commonly laid it out in prints and 
colours, with which he amused himself by stealth. 
He was now above eighteen; and longing once 
more to see his poor old grand-parents, who had 
loved him so tenderly in his childhood, seeing no 
chance of ever obtaining leave to visit them, and 
fearing that death would soon put it finally out of 
his power, he determined to do so without asking 
his father's consent. Accordingly he wrote the 
first letter that he ever penned, informing them of 
his purpose, desired that they would not acquaint 
his mother with it, but in their next letter mention 
something by which he might know they had re- 
ceived his, as he had no friend whom he could 
trust to receive a letter for him. The poor old 
people wrote presently according to his wish, and 



142 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

in the month of October he set off with a httle 
bundle of clothes, two or three books, and three- 
halfpence, being the whole of his worldly wealth. 
In another respect Bryant was ill prepared for 
this pilgrim's progress, which a feeling of natural 
piety had made him undertake. Having lived in 
the heart of a great city, and been kept at work in 
it during six days of the week, he had never in his 
life walked ten miles at a stretch ; and having 
more than doubled that distance^vhen on the first 
day's journey he reached Chippenham, he found 
that he was a very bad traveller. There he sold 
his Bible for sixpence. The next day (being Sun- 
day) he reached Marlborough, through a heavy 
rain; and was then rendered so ill by the unusual 
exertion, that he found it necessary to remain 
there all Monday, selling his best hat for eighteen 
pence. On Tuesday evening he got to Thatcham, 
and paid his last twopence for a night's lodging. 
The next day he walked fi'om morning till night 
without any other refreshment than a little water, 
reached Twyford, and sold another book for six- 
pence. Another day brought him to Brentford, 
and there he pawned an article of his apparel for 
sixpence. Friday he entered London, found out 
some acquaintance of his mother, and learned from 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 143 

them that he might have reached Sunbury without 
coming to the metropolis. But he was now better 
able to walk, he was in good spirits also at being 
so near his resting place; his friends supplied him 
with some refreshment and a little money, and he 
reached the place of his destination that same 
night, where the good old people received him 
" with the most immoderate joy." Next day his 
grandmother made him write home in her name, 
desiring his parents to forgive the step which he 
had taken on their account, as they should not 
have died in peace if they had not seen him. 

He staid with them nine days, which were nine 
of the happiest he had ever seen, and then departed 
with the greatest regret, promising to visit them 
again during the next summer. A little money 
was raised for his journey; he walked back much 
better than he had done when outward bound, and 
got home in health and spirits after an absence of 
three weeks. His father received him kindly; but 
" I leave any one of common feeling," he says, 
" to judge with what astonishment and horror I 
heard him, when he abruptly informed me that my 
poor mother (who was big with child) was dead 
and buried. The letter which I wrote she never 
saw, as it was not delivered till about two hours 



144 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

after she had exph'ed. We were all in the great- 
est affliction, as we had reason to be, on the death 
of so good a mother; hut my grief was beyond 
measure increased by the unfortunate circum- 
stance of my being in such a manner absent from 
home at the melancholy crisis, the more so as 
many people laid her death entirely to that 
account." 

The loss of an excellent wife left upon Bryant's 
father a lasting melancholy; increasing difficulties 
tended to sour his temper, and he had some cause 
for being displeased with his son, who confesses 
that all the strength of repeated resolutions could 
not make him confine his attachment to his busi- 
ness, so that in the performance of his work he 
generally fell short even of what, unskilful as he 
was, he ought to have done. Though conscious 
of this, he thought himself unkindly treated, and 
finding himself altogether unhappy in his father's 
house, he left it a second time about sixteen 
months after his return, " with as little ceremony 
as at first." The old people at Sunbury who had 
so dearly loved him were both dead. His inten- 
tion was to go to sea, where he thought his sober 
disposition might help him to preferment: and he 
meant at the end of each voyage to employ his 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 145 

wages, as far as they would go, in acquiring some 
knowledge of mathematics. It would have been 
useless he thought to look for a ship in Bristol, 
his father being so well known there, and so much 
respected, that no merchant or master of a vessel 
would have willingly received him without his 
consent. He went to London therefore ; but it 
was at a time when able seamen could hardly ob- 
tain employment, so he was glad to get work at 
his own business. This soon failed, and he then 
led a precarious life, sometimes in his old employ, 
then as a labourer at Woolwich, where they were 
digging foundations for the barracks; there he 
was disabled by the ground falling in upon him, 
and consequently discharged. He then got into 
work sometimes with a tobacco-pipe-maker at Wool- 
wich, who was a Bristol man, sometimes as a jobber 
in the rope-grounds, and when both occupations 
failed, he attended on the quays, and now and 
then got a job at the cranes; but there were at 
that time so many men of all descriptions out of 
employ, that if there was a job for four or five 
men to perform, there were generally twenty to 
scramble for it; and not being so good a scrambler 
as many of his competitors, he could not earn a 
bare subsistence, so that he was obliged to part 

L 



146 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

with every thing he could possibly spare, and was 
once so hard put to it as to go without a morsel 
of food from Saturday afternoon till Monday night. 
At this time he would have enlisted as a soldier 
in the East India service, if it had not been for a 
remaining sense of duty to his father, who had 
always declared his utter disapprobation of any 
such step. His health began greatly to fail; but 
he again obtained employment with the pipe- 
maker, though it hardly enabled him to subsist. 
Having sent some account of his distress to his 
father, he was directed to some one in reply, who 
gave him a few shillings, with an injunction to 
return to Bristol. He promised and intended to 
do so, but could not, he says, bear the thoughts 
of going back in such a state and garb as he was 
then in. He was now employed for nearly two 
years at the barracks and other public works, car- 
rying a hod for the bricklayers, under which hard 
labour it pleased God, he says, to give him an 
amazing increase of strength, so that after a little 
use he performed it with surprising alacrity. This 
improvement in his health and wages enabled him 
to send some trifling presents to his brother and 
sisters, and at the same time he told his father that 
if it was then his pleasure he would return immedi- 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 147 

ately. The answer was that his father had been 
two months dead; that his sister with a brother's 
help carried on the little business left, which was 
barely sufficient to maintain those who were in it, 
and that most of the younger children were in a 
fair way of being provided for in the public schools. 
So he was desired not to return. 

Meantime, while a laborious life had strength- 
ened a weak constitution, a precarious one, with 
its full share of privation and distress, had neither 
broken a strong spirit, nor damped a cheerful one. 
His talent of stringing together rhymes made him 
a favourite with most of his comrades, and held 
others in some degree of awe, . .he had commenced 
a satire upon one of them in consequence of a dis- 
pute, and the fear of being thus berhymed so 
worked upon the offender, that he stopt the sa- 
tirist's progress by giving a treat of beef-steaks 
and porter. An opportunity offered of entering 
upon his own business on his own account, if he 
could raise a little money in part of payment for 
the tools and fixtures of the shop from which his 
friend the Bristol-man was removing. Some of 
the foremen under whom he had worked readily 
lent him a few pounds; but when that difficulty 
was removed, an old grievance stood in his way. 
l2 



148 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

The Bristol-man sometime before had asked him 
to lampoon the daughter of the person to whom 
the house and shop belonged. He had done this 
in no measured terms, and was now properly re- 
warded for it, for the landlord refused to let him 
the shop, and the expense of removing the fixtures 
and erecting a new kiln would have been more 
than he could venture to engage in. Thus disap- 
pointed sorely, and probably little pleased with 
himself for having given the provocation which 
brought the disappointment on, he resolved upon 
going to sea, and entered accordingly on board a 
privateer. 

When he had been a fortnight on board, the 
captain learnt that he was near-sighted, and dis- 
charged him for that defect, paying him for the 
time he had been on board. Poor Bryant had no 
sooner been set ashore at Wapping than he found 
that the character of a seaman is by the law — or 
custom — of England indelible. He was seized 
by a press-gang, and dreading the treatment on 
board a man of war, thought himself fortunate 
when the landlady of their rendezvous interceded 
for him, and the alternative was offered him of 
entering the gang. " That choice," he says, " was 
soon made, and my hand with horror embraced 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 149 

the lawless bludgeon. But here I was in one 
thing agreeably surprised: I had looked on all in 
this employment as persons of the most abandoned 
principles; but I found those with whom I served 
to be men of great civility and real good nature? 
and I must do them the justice to affirm, that for 
the time I was with them I never saw an instance 
of unnecessary cruelty or insult. We were com- 
manded by Lieutenant Chubb, of the Princess 
Royal, a gentleman of the greatest humanity. But 
I was certainly in a very disagreeable situation, 
being witness to a variety of distress, which could 
not otherwise than be the effect of our operations, 
though conducted with the greatest tenderness." 
It was not long before the landlady obtained his 
discharge; there was little difficulty in doing this 
as he was no seaman; and she took him into her 
service during the illness of a person who looked 
after her business. While he was thus employed 
he wrote a song, not ill adapted for the purpose, 
inviting men to enter on board the lieutenant's 
ship. 

As his acquaintance with the press-gang and 
their officer must have led him to look with less 
dislike upon the naval service, he might probably 
have entered therein, if he had not about this time 



150 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

formed an attachment to a young woman, which 
led to an engagement between them. The effect 
was what such engagements usually produce upon 
those whose principles are good: it put an end to 
his precarious course of life. He went to Bristol, 
hoping to settle there in his own trade, and fixed 
a time when he was to return to London to be 
married, and bring back his wife. When that 
time came the press was hot, and it would have 
been dangerous for him to have travelled; he pro- 
posed therefore that his betrothed should come to 
him; and when they met and weighed all circum- 
stances, she thought it would be imprudent to 
venture upon marrying till his circumstances were 
better, and that the best plan was for her to get 
into service at Bristol, and there wait for better 
times. This was too reasonable for Bryant to 
gainsay it, for he had hitherto made no progress 
toward setting up on his own account, but had 
worked with his brother and sister, their little profit 
serving for their common maintenance. He now 
took to a void workshop on their premises, made 
use of some old tools and fixtures of his father's 
which were lying unused, and began making 
pipes for himself, the same kiln serving both him 
and his sister. Some years past with little success 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 151 

on his part, but there was something to look on 
to which sweetened life, and his was a hopeful and 
a cheerful spirit. 

He had, begun his first attempt in verse by duly 
invoking the Muse, for, as he had read in the Pan- 
theon, ^^ let no person despise the Muses unless 
he designs to bring destruction upon himself." It 
was his good hap, contrary to general experience, 
to find that theirs is no thankless service; and 
his first proof of this was that by making songs 
for some convivial meetings which he frequented, 
and singing them himself, he procured friends and 
customers, and occasioned moreover a consump- 
tion of his own tobacco-pipes. Fortune seeming 
then a little to relent, and his affairs beginning 
to wear rather a more favourable aspect, he mar- 
ried. As this had not been done in haste, it was 
not repented at leisure. His wife worked very 
hard in the business, and attended his customers 
in the city, while he went about the country with 
a hamper of pipes upon his shoulders, travelling 
in this manner ten, fifteen, and often twenty miles 
out. This he generally did twice a week; and 
sometimes amused himself during these solitary 
excursions by composing verses as he trudged 
along. One of those afflictions against which no 



I 



152 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

prudence can provide threw him back in the 
world. " My wife," he says, " lying-in, we bore 
the expense tolerably. To be sure our profit had 
not turned out so much as we could have earned 
at journey-work; still the hopes of getting into 
more business kept up our spirits. But my wife 
catching cold rather before her month was expired, 
it unfortunately aiFected one of her breasts in such 
a manner, that after every other experiment had 
been tried, she was forced to submit to the opera- 
tion of the surgeon's knife ; and was on the whole 
near half-a-year under his hands, during which 
time she was incapable of affording me any as- 
sistance." 

Soon after her recovery he was informed that 
there was a house lying void at Swansea, in which 
tobacco-pipes had been formerly manufactured, 
and where all the fixtures, tools, &c. were remain- 
ing since the death of the late occupier. Bryant 
thought it worth while to set out for that place, in 
hope of taking the house (as he knew it to be a 
place of considerable trade), or if that failed, of 
getting a few orders; so he departed on a Satur- 
day afternoon, taking with him a few shillings- 
worth of his goods by the sale of which to bear 
his expenses. This little cargo he was lucky 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 153 

enough to dispose of before he reached the New 
Passage. " Arriving there a good while before 
bed time, I sat in the kitchen of the inn," he says, 
" contemplating my schemes, and enjoying by an- 
ticipation the advantages I should probably derive 
by having the monopoly of a capital sea-port town, 
till from this pleasing reverie I was awakened by 
a farmer attempting to sing, which, through in- 
toxication, finding himself incapable of doing, 
after several efforts, he gave it over, to the regret 
of some of the company who had asked him for a 
song. Upon which, from a natural desire to 
please, I seized the opportunity to offer them one 
myself; which being accepted and sung, so well 
pleased them, that from one song to another, they 
kept me at it till almost midnight; in the mean 
time I partook of the good cheer of the company 
scot-free." 

Trifling as this incident seemed at the time, it 
speedily in its consequences turned the tide of his 
fortune. Arriving at Swansea after two days de- 
lightful walk, on the Monday, he found that the 
house for which he came to treat had been for 
more than a twelvemonth occupied, and by one in 
a different branch of business. Thus ended his 
hopes ; the next day he obtained orders for as 



154 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

large a quantity of pipes as he could get ready 
within a certain time, set off on his return towards 
evening, and slept at Neath. On the following 
morning his stock of money was reduced to a few 
halfpence, which in the course of the day was so 
far reduced by other calls, that there did not re- 
main enough to pay for a night's lodging, and after 
walking till night had closed, he took shelter in a 
barn near Cardiff. His condition had never been 
more forlorn, for he had not enough to pay for his 
fare across the Severn; however he trudged on, 
trusting to Providence, which had better things in 
store for him than he had dreamt of, even in his 
warmest hopes, and reached the Passage House 
between three and four on the following afternoon, 
some three hours before the tide served for cross- 
ing. The good nature and the social talents, of 
which he had given proof there a few nights before, 
were remembered by some of the boatmen who had 
been then his boon companions; they recognised 
him at the door, shook hands with him heartily, 
and insisted on his favouring them with a few 
songs while they waited for the tide. Bryant told 
them in reply, that he had travelled so far with an 
empty pocket and an empty stomach as to be in- 
capable of singing, and he informed them of his 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 155 

additional distress in not having wherewithal to 
pay his passage. The good-natured fellows soon 
set both his stomach and his heart at rest; they 
promised him that he should not be left behind, 
called for bread and cheese, and regaled him with 
drink. So being thus put in tune he sung several 
songs, and the kitchen rung once more with his 
voice and the applause of his delighted auditors. 

At this time a gentleman arrived, and being too 
much in haste to wait for the passage-boat, ordered 
the small one to be got ready. While this was 
doing and the stranger was taking some refresh- 
ment, Bryant contined to amuse the company in 
the kitchen. He was standing at the door when 
the gentleman went down to the beach, and per- 
ceiving that the person who attended him could 
not conveniently carry the luggage to the water 
side, he lent a hand. The gentleman then asked 
if he was going to pass; offered him a seat in the 
boat, and said, " you shall sing me one or two of 
your songs on the way, and when we get on the 
other side I will give you something to wet your 
whistle." When they were fairly under sail Bryant 
began, and having ended the song, asked leave to 
sing one of his own making, for he was a poet 
himself. This he said, expecting only to occasion 



156 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

a laugh. But the gentleman listened attentively, 
made him repeat other of his verses, pointed out 
some mis-pronunciations, and drew from him the 
particulars of his situation. When they were on 
shore he made Bryant a present, gave him his 
address, desired him to send him copies of one or 
two of the pieces which he particularly admired, 
and told him he might expect to hear from him ere 
long. 

Bryant has not mentioned the name of his bene- 
factor, nor left any clue by which it might be dis- 
covered; that stranger, therefore, must have been 
one of those who like not to have their good deeds 
known. A most effectual benefactor he proved; he 
moved in high life, and introduced Bryant to so many 
persons who liked to do good, and were weaUhy 
enough to gratify their bountiful inclinations, that 
the poor rhymer was enabled by their liberality to 
give up a miserable occupation, in which his eyes 
suffered from exposure to the fire, and to set up 
as a stationer, bookbinder, and printseller in Lon- 
don. There, in 1787, he published a collection of 
his verses, chiefly for the purpose of presenting it 
to those who had assisted in reheving him from a 
state of extreme indigence. A brief advertisement 
was prefixed by some friendly and judicious per- 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 157 

son, saying, that it had been thought respectful by 
some of his encouragers, to prefix a few lines con- 
cerning the author and the verses which were 
now made public. He had been found, upon the 
fullest inquiry, to be a man of strict probity, and 
to have supported the character of an industrious 
and honest man when struggling with a degree of 
poverty more than sufficient to have repressed the 
indulging of a poetical inclination. The verses 
were intended for the perusal of those who might 
be desirous of seeing the gradual progress of na- 
tural poetical genius, unassisted by education, and 
therefore it had been thought proper to print pro- 
gressive specimens of them, from the first essay 
down to the work on which he was at that time 
engaged. Peculiar merit was not to be looked for 
in the earlier poems, separately considered; but 
such readers as might find no amusement in ob- 
serving the growth of a poetical spirit, might pos- 
sibly find their time not misspent in reading some 
of the later compositions. A long list of benefac- 
tors followed the advertisement ; and an account of 
his life, written by himself, and exactly as he 
wrote it, except as to the spelling, was prefixed to 
the verses. 

From this small collection, for it fills only four 



158 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

octavo sheets, a few specimens will exemplify the 
writer's capabilities. The first is from one of his 
convivial pieces. 

" Now some folks like your hunting song, 

Some sing about the wars, 
For some men of the chase are fond, 

And a few of the field of Mars.^ 
While some affect your toping songs, 

(The votaries of wine,) 
The lover swears your love-sick songs 

Are the only songs divine. 

The sailor likes your sea-songs best, 

In which he'll take some pride, 
And wonder if he lets you rest 

Till he has sung you a full broadside. 
The miller sings his mill-clack song ; 

Your party songs for some ; 
The husbandman holds fast the can. 

Loud roaring harvest home ?" 

The theme then changes, and he proceeds to ex- 
tol the glories of a convivial meeting at the Sun in 
Christmas Street. Reader, I am a Bristol-man 
myself by birth, and remember the sign; and 
remember poor Bryant's workshop in the same 
street, which for several years I passed morning 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 159 

and evening, with a satchel in my hand, or across 
my shoulder, on my way to and from school. I 
remember the shop at the distance of five-and-forty 
years, by its wretched appearance; and Bryant 
himself I must often have seen there, smeared with 
pipe-clay, and his eyes bleared by the furnace. 
Even then, however, these lines will show that 
there were hours when he was '^ o'er all the ills of 
life victorious," though he did not pursue his vic- 
tory so far as Tam o'Shanter. 

"Our lips the circling tankard greeting, 

Our pipes with fragrance charge the air ; 
Success we drink, and every draught repeating, 
Or damn the churl, or toast the fair. 

While thus the social joys are jflowing, 
In every eye while pleasures beam. 

While with celestial flame each breast is glowing. 
The sky-born sons of Jove we seem. 

Meanwhile the song in strains harmonious, 
With Fancy's flights enchants our ears, 

Now hear the thundering chorus roar symphonious. 
And stun the world and drown the spheres, — 
And stun the world and drown the spheres." 

In a very different strain are these lines, ad- 
dressed to a piece of unwrought pipe-clay; the 



160 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

author probably intended them for a sonnet, a 
species of poem for which at that time he was not 
likely to have had any other models than Milton 
and Charlotte Smith. 

" Rude mass of earth, from which with moiled hands 
(Compulsive taught) the brittle tubes I form, 
Oft listless, while my vagrant fancy warm 
Roves, heedless of necessity's demands. 
Amid Parnassian bowers, or wishful eyes 

The flight of genius, while sublime she soars, 
Of moral truth in search, or earth explores, 
Or sails with science through the starry skies : 
Yet must I own, unsightly clod ! thy claim 
To my attention, for thou art my stead. 
When grows importunate the voice of need, 
And in the furnace thy last change I speed, 
Ah! then how eager do I urge the flame, 
How anxious watch thee, 'mid that glowing fire 
"That threats my eye-balls with extinction dire." 

The last specimen which I shall produce is a 
prayer : it is the best of his productions. 

'' Amid the ceaseless din of human strife. 
The groans of entering and departing life ; 
Amid the songs of joy, the wails of woe, 
That living nature utters here below ; 



JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 161 

Amid the harmony of all the spheres : 
In concert, unenjoy'd by mortal ears ; 
Amid Heaven's trumpets loud, by angels blown, 
And lyres of seraphim, around thy throne, 
O great Supreme ! and while their voices join, 
Proclaiming praise and glory only thine. 
Presuming more, perhaps, than angels dare, 
A trembling worm of earth intrudes his prayer. 

Thou great, eternal, awful, gracious cause 
Of Nature's being, motion, form, and laws ! 
That gav'st me tastes of pleasure and of pain ; ^ 
That gav'st me passions, which alternate reign, ^ 
And reason, passion's riot to restrain : ) 

By whom I first inspir'd this mortal breath ; 
In whom I trust for being after death ; 
Should I enjoy thy first great blessing, health; 
And should thy providence bestow me wealth. 
And crown me parent of a numerous race. 
Whose virtues should my name and fortune grace ; 
To love, to duty should my fair adhere ; 
Should ev'ry friend approve himself sincere ; 
Shouldst Thou my life reserve to ripest age, 
And give me all the wisdom of the sage ; 
O ! let no cursed avarice my store 
Withhold from friend distress'd, or from the poor ! 
In love, or friendship, or paternal care, 
In each enjoyment with the world I share, 
Through life, O ! give this feeling heart to be, 
For ever warm with gratitude to Thee ! 

M 



162 JOHN FREDERICK BRYANT. 

But should thy wisdom the reverse ordain, 
And send me pale disease, and life-consuming pain 
Should pinching poverty still keep me down. 
To pine beneath my fellow-mortals' frown ; 
Did I paternal feelings never know. 
Or should my fruitful loins bring future woe ; 
Should an unfaithful wife dishonour bring ; 
Should slight of fancied friends my bosom wring ; 
Should my weak mind endure the scoff of fame. 
And Dulness be my substituted name ; 
Should nature early find herself outworn. 
And that her earth to earth must soon return, 
Without a friend to comfort or to mourn — J 

Amidst this gloomy complicated throng 
Of sharp afflictions, while I press along, 
Through each, or real pain or seeming ill, 
O give me resignation to thy will ! 



From a pencil note in Mr. Park's copy of 
Bryant's verses, I learn that he was patronized by 
the Chief Baron Macdonald , . . that he removed 
from Long Acre to the Strand . . , which seems to 
imply that he was prosperous in his new trade . . . 
and that he died there of consumption in 1791. 



^ 



ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 163 

I do not introduce Robert Bloomfield here, be- 
cause his poems are worthy of preservation sepa- 
rately, and in general collections ; and because 
it is my intention one day to manifest at more 
length my respect for one whose talents were of 
no common standard, and whose character was in 
all respects exemplary. It is little to the credit 
of the age, that the latter days of a man whose 
name was at one time so deservedly popular, 
should have been past in poverty, and perhaps 
shortened by distress, that distress having been 
brought on by no misconduct or imprudence of his 
own. 

A newspaper paragraph, which has been inserted 
in one of the volumes before me, quotes from 
Sheridan the elder, an illnatured passage in al- 
lusion to the writers who have here been noticed. 
^^ Wonder," he says, " usually accompanied by a 
bad taste, looks only for what is uncommon ; and 
if a work comes out under the name of a thresher, 
a bricklayer, a milkwoman, or — a lord, it is sure 
to be eagerly sought after by the million." 

" Persons of quality" require no defence when 

the)^ appear as authors in these days : and, indeed, 

as mean a spirit may be shown in traducing a book 

because it is written by a lord, as in extolling it 

m2 



164 POETRY AND CRITICISM. 

beyond its deserts for the same reason. But when 
we are told that the thresher, the milkwoman, and 
the tobacco-pipe-maker did not deserve the pa- 
tronage they found, — ^when it is laid down as a 
maxim of philosophical criticism that poetry ought 
never to be encouraged unless it is excellent in its 
kind, — that it is an art in which inferior execution 
is not to be tolerated, — a luxury, and must there- 
fore be rejected unless it is of the very best, — 
such reasoning may be addressed with success to 
cockered and sickly intellects, but it will never im- 
pose upon a healthy understanding, a generous 
spirit, or a good heart. 

Bad poetry — (if it be harmless in its intent and 
tendency) — can do no harm, unless it passes for 
good, becomes fashionable, and so tends to de- 
prave still further a vitiated public taste, and still 
further to debase a corrupted language. Bad cri- 
ticism is a much worse thing, because a much 
more injurious one, both to the self-satisfied writer 
and the assentient reader; not to mention that 
without the assistance of bad criticism, bad poetry 
would but seldom make its way. 

The mediocres have long been a numerous and 
an increasing race, and they must necessarily mul- 
tiply with the progress of civilization. But it 
would be difficult to say wherefore it should be 



POETRY AND CRITICISM. 165 

treated as an offence against the public, to publish 
verses which no one is obliged either to purchase 
or to read. Booksellers are not likely to speculate 
at their own cost in such wares ; there is a direct 
gain to other branches of trade ; employment is 
given where it is wanted ; and if pecuniary loss be 
a matter of indifference to the author, there is then 
no injury to himself, and he could not have in- 
dulged himself in a more innocent folly, if folly it 
should deserve to be called. But if he is a good and 
amiable man, he will be both the better and the 
happier for writing verses. " Poetry," says Lan- 
dor, " opens many sources of tenderness, that lie 
for ever in the rock without it." 

If, indeed, a poet feels in himself a constant 
craving for reputation, and a desire of depre- 
ciating those who have been more successful than 
himself, — if he looks upon them as his competitors 
and rivals, not as his brethren in the art, — then 
verily it is unfortunate for such a man that he pos- 
sesses the talent of versifying. And in that case 
he will soon betake himself to criticism, as a more 
congenial calling; for bad poets become malevolent 
critics, just as weak wine turns to vinegar. 

The benevolent persons who patronized Stephen 
Duck, did it, not with the hope of rearing a great 



166 CONCLUSION. 

poet, but for the sake of placing a worthy man in 
a station more suited to his intellectual endow- 
ments, than that in which he was born. Bryant 
was befi'iended in a manner not dissimilar, for the 
same reason. In the cases of Woodhouse and 
Ann Yearsley, the intention was to better their 
condition in their own way of life. The Wood- 
stock shoemaker was chiefly indebted for the pa- 
tronage which he received, to Thomas Warton's 
good-nature, for my predecessor Warton was the 
best natured man that ever wore a great wig. My 
motives for bringing forward the present attempts 
in verse have already been explained. 

It will be seen, from Mr. Jones's account of 
himself, that his opportunities of self-instruction 
have been even less than were possessed by any 
of the uneducated aspirants who preceded him. 
Had it been his fortune to have enjoyed those 
advantages, of which the great majority of educated 
persons make no use whatever after they become 
their own masters, he might in all probability have 
held more than a respectable place among the poets 
of his age ; and the whole tenor of his conduct 
shows that he would have done his duty in any 
station of life to which he might have been called. 
But except during the time when he had access 



CONCLUSION. 167 

to Shakespeare's plays, he seems to have read lit- 
tle other poetry than what is occasionally to be 
found in provincial newspapers. From them he has 
sometimes copied a pattern, or a tune, — nothing 
more : he has expressed his own observations, his 
own fancies, his own feelings, and they are such, 
though often rudely, unskilfully, and sometimes 
obscurely expressed, as to show that he has been 
gifted with the eye, and the ear, and the feeling 
of a poet : the art is wanting, and it is now too late 
for him to acquire it. 

No other alterations have been made in his 
pieces than by occasional omissions, sometimes al- 
tering a word in such cases for the sake of con- 
nection,— and by correcting a very few grammatical 
errors. 

I would have said something here concerning 
the March of Intellect, and the beneficial direction 
which might be given it by those who are not for 
beating it to the tune of Ca ira. But I shall have 
other opportunity for this, and it is now time that 
Mr. Jones should speak for himself. 

Before I conclude, I must, however, in my own 
behalf, give notice to all whom it may concern, 
that I, Robert Southey, Poet Laureate, being 



168 CONCLUSION. 

somewhat advanced in years, and having business 
enough of my own fully to occupy as much time as 
can be devoted to it, consistently with a due regard 
to health, do hereby decline perusing or inspecting 
any manuscript from any person whatsoever, and 
desire that no application on that score may be 
made to me from this time forth ; this resolution, 
which for most just cause is taken and here noti- 
fied, being, like the laws of the Medes and the 
Persians, not to be changed. 

Also, I give notice, that I have entered into 
a society for the discouragement of autograph 
collectors ; which society will not be dissolved till 
the legislature in its wisdom shall take measures 
for suppressing that troublesome and increasing 
sect. 

Lastly, I shall be obliged to those journals which 
will have the kindness to make these notices more 
widely known. And if my county member. Sir 
James Graham, would be pleased to mention them 
in the House of Commons, — which he may do with 
as much propriety as when he spoke of the same 
person there on a former occasion, — they would 
then have the advantage of being taken down by 
the reporters, inserted in all the daily newspapers, 
copied into the weekly and provincial ones, and 
finally recorded in the Parliamentary Debates. 



ATTEMPTS IN VERSE, 

BY 

JOHN JONES, 

AN OLD SERVANT; 

WITH 

AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 



TO 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. 



The place of my birth, Sir, which happened in 
January, 1774, was the village of Clearwell, in 
Newland, in that part of Gloucestershire called the 
Forest of Dean. My father, Sir, from the period 
to which my memory extends until the time of his 
death, was employed in the gardens of Charles 
Edwin, Esq., father of the late Thomas Wynd- 
ham, Esq., many years M.P. for Glamorganshire ; 
my mother kept a small shop in the village, in 
which I was useful to her, at a very early age, in 
going to and fro to Monmouth, about six miles 
distance, for the necessaries required in her little 
way of business. This I must have commenced 
doing when little more than seven years of age, up 
to which period I had been a short time at school, 
to an old woman, with whom I learnt my letters 
and spelling, but I believe I made but little pro- 



172 SOME ACCOUNT OF 

gress in reading. The only person in the village 
who taught writing at that time was an old man, 
by trade a stone-cutter, and he only on winter 
evenings — after his return from his daily labour ; 
to him I went the best part of two winters, and 
that. Sir, was the finishing of my education. At 
the age of ten I was engaged to drive plough at 
the 'squire's, and at different places, and continued 
that kind of employment for four years ; and up to 
this period. Sir, I do not recollect to have read in 
any book but the Psalter and Testament, and 
sometimes a chapter in the Bible, by reading verses 
alternately with other boys : but with the little 
money that came into my possession I purchased 
songs— the Mournful Lady's Garland, and such 
stories as are generally hawked about in a pedlar's 
basket, and which I was very fond of reading, and 
was often affected to tears by them. At the age 
of fourteen. Sir, I went to a friend of my father's, 
who kept a small inn, in Chepstow, where I re- 
mained about three years, during which time I 
was very actively employed, and do not remember 
to have made any advance in reading or writing; 
but at the end of that time, having had many small 
sums given me, I was in possession of four guineas, 
and with that. Sir, I set off for Bath, where I had 



THE AUTHOR. " 373 

a cousin who had been many years a servant there, 
and who was very kind to me, and soon procured 
me a place as foot-boy ; and Mrs. Edwin being at 
that time in Bath, was so good as to say what she 
knew of me, which proved to be satisfactory in 
point of character. The family consisted of two 
ladies only, and I had an old Frenchman over me 
as butler; and it being about the time that the 
French Revolution commenced, he was very in- 
terested in the politics of the day, and frequently 
went out soon after breakfast and returned but a 
short time before dinner ; therefore. Sir, I had to 
lay the cloth and to place every thing in readiness 
by the time he came home ; this I used to do an 
hour or two before the necessary time, for there 
was a book-case in the dining-room which was 
left open, and by this means I was enabled to 
spend many a delightful hour at it ; and as plays 
were what mostly engaged my attention at that 
time, and Shakespeare's being in the collection, I 
read the whole of them, and some of them twice 
over ; and when I could not be in the dining-room 
I read in the Bible below stairs, and, I believe, 
went regularly through it ; but the history of Jo- 
seph, Ruth, and some other parts, pleasing me 
most, I read those passages many times over. . At 



174 SOME ACCOUNT OF 

the end of two years I engaged myself with a lady 
who only kept myself and two female servants, but 
here, Sh', I had nothing to read ; but as I found I 
had improved myself in reading, it occurred to me, 
Sir, that I ought to do something in "vviiting, and 
nothing less than an attempt to wi'ite a play could 
content me ; and big with the idea of such an un- 
dertaking, I hurried away to the stationer's, and 
expended almost all my money in the purchase of 
a dictionary, paper, pens, &c., but having no place 
to myself, and being desirous that no person should 
be made acquainted with my intention, and having 
only my bed-room in the garret to retire to, and 
that being out of the reach of the sound of the 
bell, I could do but little at it ; but I finished it 
before I left my situation, in which I staid two 
years. I then went to see my friends. Sir, and 
took it with me ; and I paid my old schoolmaster, 
the stone-cutter, for TVTiting it out for me, reading 
it out to him as he proceeded, for my writing no 
person could read but myself, and when done. Sir, 
he thought It such a marvellous thing for a boy 
who had* only been a few winter evenings to school 
to him, and praised it so much, that I was induced 
to send it off by the coach to London, directing it 
to the manager of the Haymarket Theatre; and 



THE AUTHOR. 175 

after a long time, Sir, I received a letter, and I 
wonder now at the forbearance with which it was 
written, giving me the information that it would 
not do for representation, and advising me not to 
spend my time in such difficult undertakings ; but 
I could hardly bring myself to believe that they 
had not copied it off, or stole the plot, or played 
me some dirty trick in it. In those proceedings, 
Sir, which I have kept a profound secret from that 
time until the present moment, 1 spent all my mo- 
ney, and then set off for Bath in search of another 
situation, and that I might avoid ridicule I de- 
stroyed my play, and the only part of it that remains 
on my memory is the following song or glee, which 
I had put into the mouths of some soldiers just 
before entering on the field of battle. 

" Come, come, my boys, let's prepare to meet the foe, 
Come, come, my boys, let's drink before we go ; 
When in battle, cannons rattle, we can't do so. 
Here, good, good, good, may the bottle go. 
There, pop, and off our noddles go. 
And when we're there, we shall not fare, 
As we do here, taking good cheer 
Through the sweet brown lips of a bottle-O ; 
Then come, come, come, let's drink, drink, drink, 
And take good cheer awhile we're here. 
Lest, pop, and off our noddles go." 



176 SOME ACCOUNT OF 

I soon engaged myself again, Sir, with an old 
gentleman and his three nieces, whose names were 
Alexander, uncle and sisters of the present Lord 
Chief Baron, and I had not been in the family 
many months before, young as I was, I was made 
upper servant, and as I received a little card money 
at times, I soon was enabled to procure me some 
books, which I did by subscribing two or three 
quarters to the library, and the ladies were very 
kind to me, and often lent me others, and about 
this time, Sir, I bought the first and almost the 
only book of poems I was ever master of, which 
was called Jane's Beauties, and this I read over 
several times ; but my chief reading now was his- 
tory, and I made some poetical attempts, but I 
kept copies of none of them excepting the epitaph 
on Molly Mutton, an old woman very well known 
about the streets of Bath at that time; but on 
some of my verses falling into the hands of the 
ladies, they were much amused with them, and, I 
believe, expressed regret that I had not been bet- 
ter educated. The housekeeper, Sir, was very 
kind to me, and on my expressing sorrow at her 
departure once when she was going to see her 
friends, she desired me to write something extem- 
pore in which my regret might be more strongly 



THE AUTHOR. 177 

expressed, when in a few minutes I remember 
putting the following lines into her hand: — 

" There something is, my Martha dear, 
So amiable about thee, 
The house is Heaven, when thou art here, 
But Hell to me without thee." 

After living with this family five years, Sir, I left 
them in consequence of their going to reside in 
Scotland, and unto this hour I remember them 
with gratitude and respect. This brings me to 
the year 1800, when I engaged myself with a 
gentleman of the name of Wynch, who likewise 
treated me very kindly, and in whose service I 
attempted to compose a few pieces in verse, chiefly 
songs, two of which only I put in my book, and 
one of those you have marked for transcription; 
I have two or three others in my memory, whichj 
perhaps. Sir, I may send for your opinion. From 
Mr. Wynch, I went to Mr. Lynch, with whom I 
went to Ireland ; but not liking that country I left 
him. Sir, in about a year and three or four months, 
but he was a kind and indulgent master and was 
unwilling to part with me; and in a letter of re- 
commendation which he gave me, he was pleased 
to say that my conduct had not in a single instance 



178 THE LIFE OF 

been otherwise than he could have wished it to 
have been; and with that character, Sir, I entered 
into the family which I am now serving, in Janu- 
ary, 1804, and have continued in it first with the 
father, and then with the son, only during an in- 
terval of eighteen months, up to the present hour ; 
and during which period most of my trifles have 
been composed, and some of my former attempts 
brought (perhaps) a little nearer perfection; but I 
have seldom sat down to study any thing, for in 
many instances when I have done so a ring at the 
bell, or a knock at the door, or something or 
other, would disturb me, and not wishing to be 
seen, I frequently used to either crumple my paper 
up in my pocket, or take the trouble to lock it up, 
and before I could arrange it again, I was often, 
Sir, again disturbed; from this, Sir, I got into the 
habit of trusting entirely to my memory, and most 
of my little pieces have been completed and borne 
in mind for weeks before I have committed them 
to paper; from this I am led to believe that there 
are but few situations in life in which attempts of 
the kind may not be made under less discouraging 
circumstances. Having a wife and three children 
to support, Sir, I have had some little difficulties 
to contend with, but, thank God, I have encoun- 



THE AUTHOR. 179 

tered them pretty well ; I have received many little 
helps from the family^ for which I hope, Sir, I 
may be allowed to say, that I have shown my 
gratitude by a faithful discharge of my duty; but 
within the last year my children have all gone to 
service. Having been rather busy this last week, 
Sir, I have taken up but little time in the prepara- 
tion of this, and I am fearful you will think it 
comes before you in a discreditable shape, but I 
hope you will be able to collect from it all that 
may be required for your benevolent purpose ; but 
should you wish to be empowered to speak with 
greater confidence of my character, by having the 
testimony of others in support of my own, I be- 
lieve. Sir, I should not find much difficulty in ob- 
taining it; for it affords me some little gratification, 
Sir, to think that in the few families I have served, 
I have lived respected, for in none do I remember 
of ever being accused of an immoral action, nor 
with all my propensity to rhyme, have I been 
charged with a neglect of duty. I therefore hope. 
Sir, that if some of the fruits of my humble muse 
be destined to see the light, and should not be 
thought worthy of commendation, no person of a 
beneficent disposition will regret any little encou- 
ragement given to an old servant under such cir- 
N 2 



180 THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 

cumstances; but above all. Sir, I hope there will 
be found no person so ill-natured as to upbraid 
you for the part you have taken in their introduc- 
tion, when it is done from motives the most kind 
and disinterested. I will endeavour, Sir, to let 
you have the verses by the time you wish, and will 
do my best to improve them; but as yet I have 
said but little to any person respecting them, and 
I believe. Sir, I must not address my friends on 
the subject, until I again trespass on your kind- 
ness for instructions how to proceed, for which 
Sir, there can be no hurry. 

Believe me. Sir, 

Your most obliged 
and most grateful servant, 

JOHN JONES. 

KiRKBY Hall, 
Augus-t \5th, 1827. 



( 181 ) . 

THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK. 

Poor rugged offspring of my humble Muse, 
The world may spurn thee, and thy faults abuse ; 
For in thy progress not a peaceful horn- 
Had I to form thee, and no classic power ; 
Plain simple Nature, in her homely way, 
With sudden impulse sung each artless lay, 
To state her feelings, or express a thought 
Of what her knowledge or her fancy caught ; 
No state of ease the hapless Muse enjoyed. 
The hands were busy, and the ears annoyed 
By those quick sounds with which the tongues are 

rife, 
Of mortals bustling in domestic life. 
For far from sounds of strife and noisy mirth. 
Doth Fancy love to give her musings birth. 
Nursed in a soil which felt no cheering rays, 
And laughter fearing, without hope of praise. 
Nor on thee having leisure to bestow. 
Thou wert uncherished, and thy growth was slow; 
But when through time some incident arose 
That called the heart to pleasure or to woes, 
Which Nature kindly asked the Muse to paint. 
Her willing fervor broke through all restraint. 



( 182 ) 

And soon depicted what the bosom felt, 
And then to thee some little substance dealt. 
Loved child of fancy ! not endeared for worth, 
But as a toy to him who gave thee birth. 
Not oft intruded on another's view, 
Few of thy nature or existence knew, 
And when beheld, opinions, coldly given. 
Still chilled the source by which thou might'st have 
thriven. 

But on thee chance beamed a more genial ray, 

Which lit and led thee into Southey's way; 

And he saw even in thy small share of skill, X./ 

That there was in thee something pleasing still. 

Where those who met thee with a nature kind 

Might some congenial charm, amusing find ; 

And at the risk of every critic's strife. 

He lends his hand to lead thee into life. 

For which Fll nurse, whate'er my fate may be, 

A grateful thought to life's extremity. 

To help thee forward, when thou first could'st run. 
Some promised stoutly, but have little done; 
Others, whose strains came in a softer swell. 
Found kindred spirits, and have served thee well ; 
For every kindness, be it great or small, 
I feel most grateful, and, I thank them all. 



( 18^ ) 



THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 



The Journey of Life 

There are none can presage ; 

From all we can learn 

'Tis an uncertain stage ; 

If short or extended, 

No mortal can say, 

What up-hills or down-hills 

There are in the way ; 

Yet were all we travellers 

Social inclined, 

And true honest hearted, 

And loving and kind ; 

Nor man to man scornful. 

Nor man to man wrong. 

How happily we might 

All travel along ! 

3ut Pow'r will oppress thee, 

And Pride pass thee by, 

And Folly will laugh 

At a tear in thine eye; 



( 184 ) 

Andj should dark misfortune 

Thy prospects o'ercast. 

E'en Friendship will leave thee 

Exposed to the blast ; 

And Envy and Malice 

Augment thy distress ; 

And Cunning and Avarice 

Thy little make less. 

But, strengthen'd by Virtue, 

Still bravely contend, 

And Hope will uphold thee. 

And God be thy friend. 



( 185 ) 



THE SNOWBALL. 

I HEARD the wint'ry north winds blow, 
One di'eary, cold, and cheerless night. 

And thickly fell large flakes of snow, 

Which clothed the world in spotless white. 

When morn awoke, it seem'd to say, 
" I'm dawning forth a day of woe. 

The birds shall know nor vacant spray, 
Nor what to do, nor where to go." 

I slowly beat my trackless way. 

The walk, the garden's summit sought, 

Contemplating the scene to-day 

The last unconscious night had wrought. 

The fallow brown, the verdant mead. 
And rugged heath within my view. 

Had lost their charms ; o'er all was spread 
A robe of one unvaried hue. 



( 186 ) 

" Here look/' I said, " ye proud, and know, 
As these are now, in semblance seen 

And undistinguish'd in the snow, 
You'll be— beneath a turf of green. 

" The snow shall yield to milder skies, 
The fields their genial hue shall wear ; 

But when from earth your spirits rise, 
The poor as comely forms shall bear." 

With musings thus my mind was fraught, 
When faintly gleam'd the rising sun. 

An airy wish my fancy caught, 
A ball of snow it fixt upon. 

Elated by a childish pride 

I wound a snowball round and high. 
And more than once I turn'd aside 

To "shun the gaze of passers by. 

How oft what men alone enjoy, 

Their public precepts seem to chide ; 

How prone was I to play the boy. 

But wish'd, proud world, from thee to hide. 



( 187 ) 

Dost thou man's guileless foibles see ? 

Those, in thine ire, thou'lt magnify, 
Attach them to some obloquy. 

And damn them in the public eye. 

Sweet virtue's sober, chaste career, 
Dost thou in wanton sport molest, 

Nor pity's tender, balmy tear. 
Falls uninsulted by thy jest ! 

When ponderous grown, I view'd with care 

My fancy's child, so fondly rear'd, 
And found, tho' erst it shone so fair, 
'Twas now impure, and unendear'd. 

Its progress tracing from its birth 
In every turn it made to power. 

It bore oppressive on the earth. 
And crush'd the root of many a flower. 

Does man not more oppression show 
In every turn from low degree ? 

Yes, yes, my pompous ball of snow. 

Strong semblance of the world's in thee! 



( 188 ) 

This flow'ry tribe, to thee a prey, 
Alas! to these, with longing eyes. 

Some mind congenial oft may stray, 
In hope to view their offspring rise ; 

But, maim'd and bare, in vain the spring 
Shall come their verdure to restore ; 

In vain each shower refreshment bring, 
They'll rear on earth their heads no more, 

Bedeck'd no more in lovely hue. 

The breath no more their sweets inhale, 

The longing eye no flower shall view. 
And on their charms no bee regale. 

But why, cold lump, to thee declaim, 
Or why, ye flowers, your fate deplore. 

When suffering souls my pity claim. 
And real woes deserve it more ? 

Of those who range yon heights sublime, 
Where splendour Fortune's idols show. 

Are some, man marvels how they climb, 
Emerg'd from indigence below. 



( 189 ) 

Could he their tracks, as thine, behold, 
Congenial crimes his eye might meet, 

And many a flower of mortal mould 
Untimely crush'd beneath his feet. 

Ambition rears the buoyant head. 

And pride, in power, is slow to spare; 

On those they pass, in scorn, they tread 
With all the mighty pomp they bear. 

As thine, the Miser's heart is cold. 
Destructive each of Nature's plan ; 

Thou, earth, and he, imprisons gold. 
The food of flowers and staff" of man. 

Increase of gold adds might to power. 
And vice more strong augmenteth woe, 

He'll catch the drops of every shower 

And stagnate streams Heav'n meant should 
flow. 

Oh! could but these his channels shun. 
And branch in streamlets unconfined. 

Some would in generous courses run. 
And draughts of comfort yield mankind. 



( 190 ) 

Tho' pity leaves no plaint unsung, 
Though misery bleeds at every pore, 

He'll mock the tale of either tongue, 
And turn them weeping from the door. 

Soon he, like thee, shall disappear, 

Attended by no child of woe; 
Where Virtue's children shed a tear, 

His children's tears shall cease to flow. 

And, torn from life, what tongue shall say. 
Or how he fares, or where may dwell ? 

None e'er from hence the scene survey. 
And none that see will ever tell. 

But thank thee well, for what I know; 

My bosom's yearning with desire 
Of what thou'st taught me in the snow, 

My friend, to tell beside the fire. 

Near stream'd the Mole, close at its brink 

Arose a cot of neat degree ; 
I heard, methought, the wicket clink, 

And, led by fancy, went to see. 



( 191 ) 

Its humble tenant met my sight, 

(How chance, sometimes, strange things will 
do!) 
The hair that crown'd his head was white — 

The name he bore — was Snowball, too. 

His cheeks the bloom of health had on, 
His foi:m the prime of life array'd ; 

A smile, which on his features shone, 
Of death no tardy thoughts betray'd. 

Sweet sprightly souls, all flaxen-brow'd. 
Around their sire young antics wrought ; 

To each a willing head he bow'd, 
Whose lips a parting kiss besought. 

From man to snow my fancy sped, 

And still what sage, methought, can say — 

(Though hope with years the mortal fed,) 
Which first shall pass, of these, away ? 

The leaves, but on the spray, we see. 

Our knowledge o'er their course extends ; 

And man in life to-day may be. 

But there of him our knowledge ends. 



( im ) 

By passions strong, when reason's blind, 

He's led until the blow be given ; 
When lo ! his passport's left unsigned. 

And closed he'll find the gates of Heaven. 

What stores the ant and bee provide, 

When leaves and blossoms clothe the boughs; 

Oh! Man, with all thy sense and pride. 
How much outdone art thou by those! 

Now fast the snow was seen to shrink. 
And Nature's face more gay to beam. 

And what the earth refused to drink. 
Wound slowly on and join'd the stream. 

But lingering there, my snowball stood. 
Till many suns stole down the sky ; 

A remnant yet escaped the flood. 

When pass'd the sexton, mournful, by. 

" Ho! man," said I, *' why bow thine head? 

That step so slow, and brow of care. 
Says thou, a meddler with the dead. 

Of woes must no light burthen bear. 



I 



( 193 ) 

" With unconcern, by sorrow's side, 

Aye, with the sod just drench'd with tears, 
Thou'rt seen, from love's fond eye to hide 
Of life the pride, and joy of years." 

" In vain," said he, " those tears are shed ; 
'Tis meet on death the sod should close. 
And grief 'twould be to spirits fled, 
Could love recall them from repose. 

" Since, weary of the world's caprice, 

Man here in murmurs dire complains. 
Why mourn, when he shall pass where bliss 
In every sweet perfection reigns ? 

" The' in thy path Fate's webs be spun 
Which catch thy every hope that flies, 
If well thy earthly task be done. 
Thou yet a blissful soul shalt rise. 

" But haste, for time speeds fast on wings, 
Whilst man is reckless, slow, or gay, 
Tho' oft some kind alarum rings. 
To warn him of the coming day, 
o 



( 194 ) 

" Heaven oft a shaft abruptly sends, 
Its power a wayward world to show; 

E'en now, from whence yon smoke ascends. 
Is mourn'd an unexpected blow. 

'* And closed are eyes the morn awoke; 

To other realms a spmt's fled ; 
This hour hath dealt the fatal stroke, 

And Snowball's stretch'd on death's cold bed. 

" But, rest our plaintive converse here, 
To toll his mournful knell I'm bound. 

Soon, on the breeze, thy pensive ear 
Will note its deep and solemn sound." 

My trembling heart beat in my breast 

To think, when pondering o'er death's hour, 

That he, who did the thought suggest. 
Should bow so soon beneath its power. 

Those tender souls, who skipp'd with pride. 
To share his smile around the door. 

Nor saw that death lurk'd by his side. 

Nor thought that soon he'd smile no more. 



( 195 ) 

Man, think, what e'er thy state reveals — 
Youth, health, or strength, these all had he ; 

Yet, then was Death close at his heels. 
And now as close to thine may be. 

On this reflection prone to dwell, 

I, to and fro, the walk paced on, 
Oft murmuring, as I heard the knell, 

" Yes! ere the snow, poor Snowball's gone !' 



( 196 ) 



WHY THAT SIGH, &c. 



Why that sigh art thou suppressing, 
Did it take its flight from grief? 

Yes, that rising tear's confessing 
Thou art pain'd, and need'st relief. 

To my mental vision show it, 
Fear thee not to trouble me ; 

'Twill less painful be to know it. 
Than what dumb suspense will be. 

If some pregnant cloud appals thee, 
Love may shield thee from the shower ; 

If perplexing cares inthral thee, 
Counsel may dispel their power. 

If reflection doth remind thee 
Of the fleeting state of breath. 

And of one thou'st left behind thee 
In the darksome shades of death. 



( 197 ) 

Once the idol of affection, 

Once the joy of youthful years, 

One to whom sweet recollection 
Pays those tributary tears, 

Pure's the grateful spring that fed them, 
Down their channels let them steal, 

'Tis a pensive bliss to shed them. 
Which the virtuous, only, feel. 

If thou'st view'd some scene before thee, 

Which in fancy's overcast. 
And thou fear'st the kind beam o'er thee 

Will not light thee to the last. 

Let such prospects ne'er deject thee, 
Be they dark, or be they clear ; 

That a guide will e'er direct thee. 
Never doubt, and never fear. 



198 ) 



LINES 

ADDRESSED 

TO MRS. LAWRENCE, STUDLEY PARK, YORKSHIRE. 

On New Year's Day, 1824. 



Oh ! Lady of Studley, resplendent in worth 

Is the Star which on thee its mild influence beams, 
Attracted by virtue, when bright'ning on earth, 

It play'd on thy breast and dissolved it in streams. 
And ceaseless and pure, from the heart-springs they flow. 

The channels of pity they love to explore, 
And many a comfort they yield as they go. 

To the aged, the weary, the care-worn and poor. 

Oh! Lady, 'tis sweet in the bye-path to tread 

Which leadeth to penury's door, 
To succour the ailing, and pillow the head 

Which had not a pillow before ; 
To cherish the widow ; the orphan protect, 

Whom death of its guides has despoiled, 
And train it to knowledge, and teach it respect. 

And rear it a virtuous child. 



( 199 ) 

And, Lady, 'tis sweet to the bounteous soul, 

Which prides in the good it can do, 
To have such resources within its controul, 

As Heaven hath measured to you. 
And may they increase, still empowering the will 

To solace affliction in tears, 
Whilst He who discerns how your trusts you fulfil, 

Awards you health, honour, and years. 

This day to a bantling hath Time given birth. 

Which bears the Omnipotent's plan. 
As well as the various changes of earth. 

The yearly allotment of man. 
That its portion for you may be tempered as sweet 

As a sensible hope can desire. 
Is the wish of a soul to whom hope is a cheat, 

The poor humble bard you inspire. 



( 200 ) 



A VOICE FROM RIPON. 

January 1, 1825. 



Full fast came the herald, from Studley's bowers, 

Of our Lady's danger informing, 
And fear made sad our evening hours, 

Tho' gay had we been in the morning - 

A night's repose, in suspense, we sought, 

But none took we for sorrow. 
Our sleep was chased by the restless thought 

Of what might be on the morrow. 

When the morning beam'd and in the west 

Inquiring looks we were casting, 
How oft our mental tongues express'd, 

" May the life of our Lady be lasting !" 

But from the west we no tidings gain'd 

But what despair indited. 
Not a thought had we that was not pain'd. 

Not a hope that was not blighted. 



( ^01 ) 

'Till, sweet as the morning ray appears 

To the night-bewildered stranger, 
A sound broke forth on our pensive ears, 

That lessen'd our Lady's danger. 

And now, as reviving nature glows 

In spring, when the sun grows stronger. 

We joy in the love our Ruler shows 
In the meed of our Lady longer. 

Tho' bridal'd not, and children none. 

To many has she been a mother. 
And when to the regions of bliss she's gone, 

We shall see not such another. 

Like her, ye more reckless, whom fortune befriends, ' 
Have an eye to the prospect before ye ; 

She dispenses the blessings which Heaven sends. 
In paving her way to its glory. 

The gloom of sorrow that sate on each brow 

Declared with what grief we should mourn her; 

And the pleasure that brightens each countenance 
now. 
Is light to the love which is borne her. 



( 202 ) 



DEEP IN THE DELL. 



Deep in the dell, when pensive straying, 

Far from every noisy sound, 
I saw a spring in beauty playing 

From a rock with foliage crowned ; 
And as its airy bound 'twas taking. 

And its form a radiance shed, 
A crag beneath, the torrent breaking, 

Around in parting streams it spread. 



And each a channel lonely winding. 

Dull and slowly seem'd to run, 
And turn'd, methought, in hope of finding 

That with which its course begun; 
From either side to each inclining. 

One by one, the current fed ; 
Fast it flowed, when all combining. 

Praises murmuring as it sped. 



( 203 ) 

'Twas like, methought, two souls existing, 

Young in years and light in care, 
When in social bands enlisting. 

Life is sweet, and hope is fair. 
Joys, which mutual love provides them, 

Cheer their course, and on they go 
Till some turn of fate divides them. 

Strange and dreary ways to know. 



In lonely hours, anticipation 

Paints the scene of joys to come ; 
And when 'tis view'd, how inclination 

Woos the path which leads to home, 
And when those souls, in memory chaptered, 

The seat of love's attraction swell. 
Congenial spirits flow enraptured. 

Like the waters down the dell. 



( 204 ) 



AN ADDRESS TO A DEAD CAT, 

WHICH HAD FALLEN FROM THE IVY-TREE THAT RUNS UP THE TOWER 

OF KIRKBY FLEETHAM CHURCH, YORKSHIRE ; UP WHICH IT 

IS SUPPOSED IT HAD CLIMBED AFTER BIRDS. 



Wert thou by mad ambition fired, 
Or wert by sensual hopes inspired? — 
But, by whatever thou on wert led 
It matters not, life's spark is fled. 

I ween the fluttering tribe above 

In airy tumult won thy love, 

And, branch by branch, their height to gain, 

Thou climb'dst, unconsciously and vain. 

When creeping on, thro' foliage green, 
In hope by art to rise unseen. 
The nearing sounds thy fancy charm'd. 
Nor look below thy fears alarm'd. 
With cautious step and eye intent. 
Surprise thy aim, and ruthless bent. 
The height was gained, the birds had fled. 
And thou a victim in their stead. 



( 205 ) 

When danger met thy wond'ring eyes, 
Most loud and piteous were thy cries, 
And pity heard, and breathed a sigh, 
And grieved she could not climb so high. 

On faithless boughs, unyielding rest, 
When weary morn and hunger prest, 
A blast most rude the branches tost, 
Thy hold exhausted nature lost, 
And down to earth impetuous sent : 
In cries and groans thy life was spent. 

Had to thy wants no heed Keen shown, 
And thou the pangs of hunger known, 
And urged on by a sense so keen, 
More piteous would thy fate have been ; 
For life will waste on stinted fare, 
And life is first in nature's care. 

But ever wont wert thou to find, 

Of food thy fill, a welcome kind. 

And daily in thy peaceful dome 

Wert petted, stroked, and call'd poor Tom! 

To please thee, too, 'twas the resort 

Of cats, for play, — and mice for sport. 



( 206 ) 

With comforts thus, strewn in thy way, 
Less prone thou should'st have been to stray, 
And not indulgence sought in strife, 
And led a wild advent'rous life ; 
But life hath for thy errors paid. 
And low thy daring spirit's laid. 

Did passions, Tom, to thine a-kin. 
But prompt alone thy race to sin. 
How many hearts, with woe oppress'd. 
How many sighs, which pain the breast. 
How many bitter tears that flow. 
Had mortals ne'er been doom'd to know. 
Whom none can cheer, and nought console, — 
For forms, who risk, with life, a soul ! 

There are — (a wanton course to run,) 
Those who a home and bliss will shun ; 
But gone, alas! within the door 
The sweets of bliss are felt no more. 
But to the threshhold may be traced 
From every scene the wanderer's paced. 
Where Riot sung, or Folly played, — 
A path by evil tidings made, — 



( 207 ) 

And on 'tis trode, without a turn, 
Till deep for woe a channel's worn. 
It fills ! it streams ! a flood appears! 
And all the dome's deluged with tears. 

At worth's expense their passions fed, 
They're soon to vice from folly led, 
Desires, — increasing every hour, 
As streams augment by every shower, 
And pamper'd till they're tyrants grown, — 
Subdue each power, and wield their own ; 
They seek their food by stealth or strife. 
Offend the laws, and forfeit life. 

Too gay in sober life to move. 
And envious of the show above. 
And vainly will'd to rise like thee. 
Will others climb ambition's tree. 
And wind, in specious guise, their way. 
Thro' branches clothed in bright array. 
Ascend its height, by force or guile. 
And glare, in glorious pomp, awhile. 

But wasting strength will soon betray 
Their want of power their hold to stay, 



( 208 ) , . 

When, with reluctance to depart, 
A union's form'd with pride and art, 
Who form a tale of pleasing sounds, 
And some demure pretext propounds, 
And if the snare fresh succours bring, 
They yet a little longer cling. 

But patient time will truth disclose, 
And every art by which they rose, 
And sufF'ring dupes, with vengeful fi'own, 
A storm will raise, and shake them down. 
And shame, the second wife of pride. 
Will lead them off, in shades to hide. 

Would those who climb, and those who stray. 
Above their height, and from their way, 
A moment pause — to calm the breath. 
And ponder o'er thy fall and death. 
And let the truths by thee defined 
Restrain the wanderings of the mind. 
And mould them to a just degree, — 
How well, for Men, and Cats, 'twould be ! 



( 209 ) 



LINES, 

OCCASIONED BY WALKING OVER SOME FALLEN LEAVES. 



Fallen leaves, your rustlings waken 

Fancy from a gentle sleep ; 
Note will of ye now be taken, 

O'er ye as I slowly creep. 

Yes, her eyes are backward wending. 

And in early life youVe seen 
Where kind spring, your race befriending, 

Led ye forth in buds of green. 

Now she sees you far advancing. 
To the mild beam opening wide. 

Now in gentle zephyrs dancing. 
In your full expanded pride. 

In the glory of existence. 

Now you're ey'd from hill and glade. 
To the sun ye show resistance, 

And ye yield a cooling shade. 



( 210 ) 

Now a change in life o'ertakes ye, 

And ye wear a golden cast ; 
Now your charms and strength forsake ye, 

And ye sicken in the blast. 

Now from every tree you're spreading, 
Borne away on wind and stream; 

On ye now I'm rudely treading, — 
Get ye down to whence ye came. 

" Hush !" methinks I hear ye saying, 
*^ Thine no better doom will be,; 
Life's tree, on which thou art staying, 
Is a frail unstable tree. 

" Many souls now on it number'd, 
In some near approaching squall, 
Down shall come, with crime encumber'd, 
And more deep than us may fall. 

" Be not with thyself elated ; 

Be thou not so proud of birth ; 
Thou to us art near related, 
Children all of mother Earth. 



( 211 ) 

" Let our frail existence tell thee, 
Thine is but a breath of air, 
Soon a pufF to earth shall fell thee, 
And with us thou'lt mingle there." 

Yes ! from earth, we are descended, 

And a-kin, I'll not deny, 
Nor that, when my course is ended. 

With you there my frame may lie. 

I've a spirit which must leave it 
For eternal pain or ease. 

Help me, oh my God, to save it. 
Lest I fall more low than these ! 



p2 



{ 212 ) 



THE BUTTERFLY TO HIS LOVE. 



Extend thy wings, my dear, 

And we will round the bowers go ; 

The sun is warm and clear, 

And inviting is the day ; 

The dews have left the blade, 

And fragrant now the flowers blow, 

And, as they blow to fade. 

Let's enjoy them while we may! 

We're not of mortal mould 

To die, and then unfold 

Our eyes in still a brighter world. 

Its glories to explore ; 

Our life is but a summer long ; 

Then let us rove its sweets among. 

For when the blast blows bleak and strong. 

We sleep, to wake no more. 



( ^13 ) 



TO A WILD HEATH FLOWER. 



Sweet flow'ret! from Nature's indulgence thou'rt cast. 
Thy home's on the cold heath, thy nurse is the blast, 
No shrub spreads its branches to shelter thy form, 
Thou'rt shook by the winds, and thou'rt beat by the 

storm ; 
But the bird of the moor on thy substance is fed. 
And thou giv'st to the hare of the mountain a bed ; 
In youth, from the cold winds thou'lt grant them a 

space, 
And in age, when the fowler's at war with their race. 
The winds may assail thee, the tempest may rage, 
Thy nature is proof to the war which they wage; 
Thou'lt smile in the conflict, and blossoms unfold. 
Where the nurslings of favour would shrink from the 

cold ; 
Though rugged and sterile the seat of thy birth, 
Simplicity formed thee of beauty and worth. 

Remain then, sweet blossom, the pride of the moor. 
In loneliness flourish, unpampered and pure, — 



( 214 ) 

Expand in the tempest, and bloom on the brow. 

An emblem of sweet independence art thou ; 

And the soul who beholds thee unhurt in the strife 

Shall learn to contend with the troubles of life ; 

And when the cold wind of adversity's felt, 

And the shafts of affliction are ruthfully dealt. 

His spirit, unbroken, shall rise to the last. 

And his virtues shall open and bloom in the blast. 

And his joys shall be sweet when the storm is at rest, 

And the sun beams of glory shall play on his breast. 



( 315 ) 



OLD MAWLEY TO HIS ASS. 

THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNT OF WHOM APPEARIUD iN THE SUI 
NEWSPAPER OF APRIL, 1828. 



An old man died last week at Langport, near Lewes, upwards of 
eighty years old. He had resided on the family estate of the 
Tourles nearly fifty years, one of whom bequeathed him an an- 
nual income, which he has regularly enjoyed ; and from the present 
head of the family he has received very beneficent attention ; on 
his death-bed he desired that his old donkey, vi^hich he had daily 
strode for forty-five years, should be killed and buried by his 
side. His general avocation was to look after the rabbits, and 
the youngsters of several generations have. been awed by the call 
of ' here comes old Mawley,' when they were employed in birds' 
nesting on the race hill." 



Together we have borne the blast, 
For five-and forty winters past, 
But we are now both waning fast. 

My poor old Ass. 

Our sun is sinking in the west, 
By night's dark shades we're closely prest. 
And soon shall reach our home of rest, 
My faithful Ass. 



( 216 ) 

A faithful friend thou'st been to me 
As ever beast to man could be, 
And grateful is my heart to thee, 

My good old Ass. 

In many a long and daily round 
O'er rugged ways and miry ground. 
On thee I've ease and comfort found, 
My steady Ass. 

We've met the storm's tremendous ire. 
The thunder's crash and lightnings fire. 
And never would'st thou fear or tire. 
My patient Ass. 

Through rain and hail, and drifting snow. 
And winds as keen as Heaven could blow, 
Thy willing nature bade thee go. 

My gentle Ass. 

O'er every rough and slippery road. 
With patient care thou'st firmly strode. 
And sav'd, more than thyself, thy load, - 
My worthy Ass. 



( 217 ) 

And in thy long-spent youthful day, 
The sprightly pranks thou'st wont to play. 
Drew fi'om love's sun a tender ray, 
My merry Ass. 

More strong it grew from year to year, 
Till time and worth hath made thee dear ; 
Oft o'er thee now I shed a tear, 

My poor old Ass. 

And can I go, when life shall end. 
And leave so good and kind a friend. 
In cold neglect thy days to end. 

My hapless Ass ? 

Unhoused by night, by day unfed, 
In lonely lanes in mire to tread, 
With not to shelter thee a shed, 

My suffering Ass ? 

How would the ruthless youngsters stride 
Thy bare back bones and goad thy side. 
And chequer with long stripes thy hide. 
Unhappy Ass ! 



( 218 ) 

And thou would'st then a visit pay 
To where thou'dst known a better day, 
And thence be rudely chased away, 

My injured Ass. 

And to be chastened like a thief 
Whence hope had led thee for relief, 
Would break thy poor old heart with grief. 
My honest Ass. 

And from the door should'st slowly creep, 
And in some quagmire dank and deep 
Thou'dst sink, and take thy long night's sleep, 
My weary Ass. 

And must thy doom be so severe ? 
Oh! no, the thought awakes a tear, 
I cannot go and leave thee here. 

My faithful Ass. 

The reckless may the thought deride. 
The wise, perchance, may gently chide ; 
But we will moulder side by side. 

My loving Ass. 



I 



( ^19 ) 

I'll will, that, at my latest sigh, 
Thou, too, some easy death shalt die, 
And in one grave we both will lie, 

My own old Ass. 

We, in thy youth, associates were, 
We've lived an undivided pair, 
And so to earth we'll go, and there. 

My kind old Ass, 

One stone shall cover thou and me ; 
And where we lie the world may see. 
For this our epitaph shall be, 

My friend and Ass. 



EPITAPH. 

Oh ! stay, a moment here expend, 

For here, where thou shalt soon extend, 

Lie I, old Mawley, and my friend, 

My faithfril Ass. 

Hast thou a friend as good as mine, 

And gratitude was never thine ? 

Oh ! blush thou then, before its shrine, 

For shame, and pass. 



( 220 ) 



TO THE TONGUE. 



Thou herald both of love and ire, 
Thou chord of truth — thou arrant liar, 
Thou calmer and thou cause of strife, 
Thou blessing and thou curse of life, 
How doth the power to thee consigned, 
In adverse ways affect mankind ! 

Tuned are thy softest strains to move 
Some fair, whose ear's awake to love ; 
In which such sweets thy art instils, 
That every nerve with transport thrills ; 
And hushed is every thought to sleep 
Which o'er the heart should sentry keep ; 
And every scene's illumed with rays 
That beam from hope on future days, 
And on love's stream most sweetly goes. 
And thou'rt the fount from whence it flows. 

And when from sources pure it springs, 
A balm for many a wound it brings. 



( £21 ) 

And many draughts, when woes are rife, 
'Twill yield, to cool the thirsts of life ; 
And ne'er its pleasing powers deny 
Till nature sinks and leaves it dry. 

But oft it flows from art, and tries 
To tempt the taste, and lead the eyes, 
And lures some object to the brink, 
And fondly urges it to drink, 
And, hopeful that its balmy powers 
May solace yield in future hours. 
The draught is quaft, the error's known, 
Repentance comes, and peace is flown, 
And in the victim's plaints is sung, — 
' Oh ! woe betide a guileful tongue.' 

Thy sounds break forth in anger loud. 
Like thunder from a stormy cloud, 
And many souls from sweet repose 
Provoke to strife or wake to woes. 
When passions strong subdue the sense. 
Charged with some vain or vile pretence, 
Thou deal'st thy harsh invective round, 
And every softer voice is drown'd : 
The gentle fear, the wise retreat, 
And poor dependents mourn their state 



( ^22 ) 

So hard, when laden low, to be 
Beneath their load reviled by thee. 

As on life's rugged road they tread. 
To earn, before they eat, their bread ; 
When hard they toil and keen their pains, 
Their comforts few, and small their gains ; 
Oh ! wouldst thou, with thy kindest powers. 
Direct them in their arduous hours. 
And rule the weak with mild control. 
And ease the heavy burthen'd soul, 
And tell them that they're task'd on earth 
To try their patience and their worth. 
And they who best its trouble bear 
Will merit most kind Heaven's care. 

Oh ! then, illumed with hope's mild ray. 
Through life's hard, toilsome, gloomy day, 
They'd journey on with hearts more light, 
And peaceful lay them down at night. 

If thus, what tears would cease to flow. 
What pangs their hearts would cease to 

know, 
How many troubled thoughts would rest, 
What murmurs would be unexpressed ! 



( 223 ) 

When in the cause of truth thou'rt heard, 

Thy sounds are sweet in every word, 

On virtue's ear they kindly swell, 

And where they rise she loves to dwell. 

Through life's gay scenes, where folly tries 

To win the gaze of youthful eyes. 

Where art might lure and vice betray, 

They guide her on her lovely way. 

To that high eminence of years. 

Which rises o'er the vale of fears. 

From whence the mind, when backward cast, 

Grows pleased to view the dangers past. 

When falsehood's tales thou'rt prone to tell, 
In loathsome shades thou'rt doom'd to dwell, 
And shunn'd thy haunts, thy counsels spurn'd, 
Nor ear of worth is to thee turn'd ; 
And aught of good, or aught of ill, 
To lure or shun, as suits thy will, 
Thou'lt spread with art what vice may plot, 
And those deceive who know thee not ; 
And should mistrust proclaim thy shame, 
Thou'lt shift, with dexterous skill, the blame. 
And some poor guileless soul revile. 
And from it turn love's stream awhile. 



( 224 ) 

But when the misty scene grows clear 
And truth's discern'd, dost thou appear 
A thing clad in the world's disgust, 
Whom none can love and none will trust. 

And when, in penury or pain, 

Woe bids thee sound her plaintive strain, 

And thou and an assisting tear 

Meet, — that the eye and thou, the ear 

Of pity, — thy pathetic lay 

Through her soft nature pleads its way. 

And gains her heart, where deep distress 

Finds consolation and redress. 

And should the aid to suffering dealt 
Be in some needful moment felt. 
Reflection comes, to soothe the mind 
With charms of every pleasing kind. 

When wrath seems kindling in the breast, 
By murmurs only yet expressed, 
Would'st thou in patient stillness bide. 
And let the ruffled thought subside. 
Or with, if thou must needs be heard 
In thy defence, a soothing word 



( 225 ) 

With reason tempered, stay the strife 

That might, if dared, endanger life, 

Oh! haply, in a moment's gleam, 

Where scowl'd a frown, a smile might beam. 

Perchance outheld, for pity's sake, 

A hand that 'twould be joy to shake. 

Should'st thou with daring meet the shower. 
And to a storm provoke its power, 
That storm might to a tempest grow, 
And reason, the mind's rudder, go, 
And passions high, like billows run ; 
And ere the dreadful strife was done, 
Li^'s bark might on a rock be tost. 
And in the wreck a soul be lost ; 
And many, suffering by the strife, 
Would brand thee as the curse of life. 

Methinks I hear thee mercy crave. 
For thou art but the passions' slave. 
Then go, but with respect, from me. 
And tell them what I've told to thee, 



( 226 ) 



TO LYDIA, 

WITH A COLOURED EGG, ON EASTER MONDAY 



In Scotia so fair, 'tis a custom they say, 

Old Time hath brought down with his stream, 

Each friend to present with an egg on this day, 
As a token of love or esteem. 

But why or wherefore, is a matter, I wot. 
Tradition withholds from my view. 

And since the original cause I have not, 
I'll brood over this for one new. 

It bears, my dear Lyd, when minutely defined, 

A fanciful semblance of thee. 
Thy heart is its centre, its white is thy mind. 

Its shell and thine honour agree. 

If once, from neglect, an egg falls to the ground. 

No art can its virtue restore ; 
If once at its post honour's not to be found, 

We look there for honour no more. 

Since honour's defection will virtue expose, 

And bliss with its purity dwells, 
The treasure within thy fair bosom enclose, 

As eggs are enclosed in their shells. 






( 2^7 ) 



HARK! HARK! &c. 

Hark ! hark ! sweetly the nightingale 
Sings, as the moon's peeping over the mountain ; 
Hark ! hark ! through the soft evening gale, 
How her notes swell from the tree by the fountain; 

Her coming is cheering, 

The summer is nearing. 
Sweet nature is smiling, and spring warmly glowing, 

And early to greet them, 

My love and I '11 meet them 
Adown in the vale where the primrose is blowing. 

Hark ! hark ! still hear the nightingale 

Sing, on the lake as the moon's brightly beaming ; 

Hark ! hark ! now her notes on the gale 

Come from the dell where the water is streaming ; 

The verdure is springing, 

The airy choir singing. 
The flowers will bloom and their fragrance be shedding, 

Arise, nor be loathful, 

Ye sleepy and slothful. 

And view, when the morn beams, the sweets that are 

spreading. 

q2 



( 228 ) 

Hark ! hark ! still sings the nightingale, 

Whilst a dark cloud is the moon's rays confining ; 

Hark ! hark ! now her voice on the gale 

Comes from the brake where the woodbine's entwining 

The summer is coming, 

The insects are humming, 
All nature's expanding in beauty and order; 

My love and I'll wander 

Where streamlets meander. 
And where the blue violets bloom on their border. 



( ^29 ) 



TO ELIZA, 

WITH A LITTLE GOLD KEY. 



Eliza, this ring I'll entrust to thy care. 
If thou wilt of the charge but approve, 

The worth it encloses thou only shalt share, 
'Tis the key of my heart and its love. 

If fortune should from thee its blessings with- 
stay. 

Oh! come in the sorrowful hour, 
'Tvdll open a bosom sincere as the day. 

That will solace thee all in its power. 

A few chosen souls have the means of access, 
And friendship and kindness may free, 

But I have enclosed in a private recess 
What shall only be opened to thee. 



( ^80 ) 



THE FRIEND OF MY HEART. 



When my heart droops under worldly displeasure, 
And restless emotions its comforts destroy, 
In friendship is found a resource beyond measure, 
For chasing the cares which the bosom annoy. 
Sweet counsel addressing, each moral impressing, 
Bestowing each blessing the mind can impart — 
Oh ! fate, let thy dictates be e'er so distressing. 
Preserve for me ever the friend of my heart. 

So when the wild storm has disturbed the main 

ocean, 
And peril and toil have the seaman oppressed, 
A calm soon, like friendship, shall still its emotion. 
And lull, in soft slumbers, his bosom to rest. 
Tho' dangers surrounding, and troubles confound- 
ing, 
If friendship's abounding, 'twill solace impart. 
Oh! fate, let thy arrows be ever so wounding. 
Preserve for me ever the friend of my heart. 



( 281 ) 

The mortal advancing his own pleasures only. 
From whose frigid bosom no sympathy flows, 
Shall pass thro', unpitied, unsheltered, and lonely. 
The wild and bleak storms, when adversity blows ; 
No love shall caress him, no friend shall address 

him, 
Tho' care may oppress him and wound like a dart. 
Oh ! fate, let my prospects be e'er so depressing, 
Preserve to me ever the friend of my heart. 



( 232 ) 



MARY KILLCROW. 

In the hamlet, where time introduced me to Hght, 
A poor little pitiful stranger on earth, 
Till nurs'd with affection, and kiss'd with delight. 
And cherish'd by her whom I pain'd at my birth. 
Rose sounds which now often resound in mine ears. 
And objects which fancy attached to the mind, 
And memory hath borne through the tempests of 

years, 
Whilst things of more import fell listless behind ; 
And out of its relics it loveth to show 
A dapper old woman named Mary Killcrow. 

Two asses had Mary, with saddles and sacks. 
And cheerfully with them she trudged through the 

mire, 
And twice in the day, with these full on their backs. 
They bore from the coalpit our fuel for fire. 
Her body was wrapp'd in a mantle of grey. 
By a kerchief of blue was her bonnet confined. 
And a staff in her hand, if her asses should stray, 
With a point in the end, to reprove them behind; 



■( 233 ) 

But seldom they felt or a prick or a blow, 
So mild was the nature of Mary Killer ow. 

The features of Mary were ruffled with age, 
And faded her beauties, whatever they were ; 
The sun in its strength, and the storm in its rage. 
Had rendered her brown, had she ever been fair. 
Her figure was round, and her stature was low. 
And sturdy her limbs, but to quickness inclin'd; 
And Mary oft trode the first track in the snow. 
With a rude band of hay round each ancle en- 

twin'd. 
If wont some defects thy exterior to show. 
Rare virtues embellish'd thee, Mary Killcrow. 

The male ass was Ned, and the female was Bess; 
She oft for their sustenance clipp'd the wild blade, 
And ere her own supper she cuU'd them a mess, 
And ere her own breakfast their hunger was staid: 
Their saddles were stufF'd with the softest of hair, 
Their beds were composed of the driest of fern ; 
And many an orphan might wish to lie there. 
And there the obdurate niight sympathy learn. 
There are mothers to children such love never 

show. 
As thou didst thine asses, good Mary Killcrow. 



( 2S4 ) 

The course of her journey wound where, in the 

dean, 
Britannia's best bulwarks in olden time grew, 
And ran o'er a common where often was seen 
The vilest disturber her peace ever knew. 
An ass unrestrain'd there a wanton life led, 
And Turk was the name which the libertine bore; 
He'd bray after Bess in defiance of Ned, 
When woful the fray and appalling the roar ; 
They'd list not to reason, nor reverence show 
To the tongue nor the staff of old Mary Killcrow. 



If laden, Ned's burthen soon fell to the ground ; 
If lighten'd, Ned from her more speedily ran ; 
To what chance might offer poor Bess would be 

bound : 
Whene'er the bold rivals the conflict began, 
The onset was hail'd by the sound of each trump ; 
Teeth, tongue, heels and nostrils, alike unconfin'd, 
The might of the jaws and the strength of the 

rump 
Were rudely enforc'd, or before or behind; 
Bess oft gave a leer, and oft with it would go 
The sad lamentations of Mary Killcrow. 



( 2S5 ) 

Disadvantaged was Ned, was each circumstance 

weigh'd, 
For toil and accoutrements straighten'd each joint; 
But Mary was kind, and oft sent to his aid 
A stroke with her staff or a thrust with her point. 
The vanquished would run and the victor would 

bray. 
Whilst Mary from Turk stood the guardian of 

Bess; 
And there must she stand, from the end of the fray, 
Till mortal came by to relieve her distress : 
No neighbour around thee thy troubles would 

know, 
And haste not to succour thee, Mary Killcrow. 

Assistance derived and disasters redress'd, 
Poor Mary, departing, would brandish her goad; 
But lest her disturber again should molest, 
'Twas needful to chase him afar from the road. 
He stopp'd with the form, which declin'd to pursue, 
And kick'd at the stones which were after him 

flung; 
And when she had dwindled away from his view, 
The smart of his wounds would he balm with his 

tongue. 
How oft after crime, when his passions are low, 
Man smarts like the ass behind Mary Killcrow. 



( ^^ ) 

Poor Mary had journey 'd divested of fear, 
Had not her vile enemy come by surprize ; 
But nature had deaden'd the pass to her ear, 
Her bonnet contracted the scope of her eyes ; 
The foe to evade she would often unclose 
Her kerchief, vrhen near where the mischief might 

lurk. 
And with her old spectacles striding her nose, 
Wpuld take a long look for the dissolute Turk. 
There are those who have felt a more dissolute 

foe. 
Than thou and thine asses, good Mary Killcrow. 

Thy heart was sincere and thy nature profuse ; 
Thou would'st brave the rude blast if our fuel 

should fail. 
Nor in the storm's enmity would'st thou refuse 
If want chill'd the hearth of one cot in the vale. 
Round the hills which enclose it in childhood I 

wound. 
Through the woods which adorn it when older I 

ranged. 
On the hills in its season the primrose I found. 
And sloes in the woods when the season was 

changed; 
When winter hadwhiten'd the summits with snow, 
I woo'd the bright coals of old Mary Killcrow. 



( 237 ) 

Heaven sent for thee, Mary, whose wisdom enacts, 
That flesh is but dust, and but dust it shall be ; 
Thine asses are moulder'd, but saddles and sacks 
Will long hang in mournful remembrance of thee. 
Tho' in the earth's bosom thy wasting form lies, 
When angels shall sound the ascension of souls, 
Tho' dark was thy calling, thy spirit shall rise 
More bright than the flame which arose from thy 

coals. 
Ye pious and good, when to Heaven ye go, 
You'll see in her glory old Mary Killcrow. 



( 2^B ) 



HOME. 



I've climb'd the Alpine mountains, 

I've stray'd where Jordan streams, 
I've drank of coohng fountains 

In Thibet's sultry beams. 
Tho' enterprize impels me 

In distant climes to roam. 
Sweet fancy fondly tells me 

The seat of bliss is home. 



Each thought's enwrapt in wonder 

When riding on the deep ; 
The scene enchants me under, 

When standing on the steep. 
Some charm in art or nature 

I find where'er I roam, 
But none in form or feature 

The heart endears like home. 



( 239 ) 

To rivals I compare thee, 

And, priding in thy worth, 
Most sweet's the love I bear thee, 

Thou Isle that gav'st me birth. 
Whate'er my cares may chasten 

When far from thee I roam, 
I woo the gales to hasten 

The bark that bears me home. 



And sweet's the heart's emotion, 

When through the mist appears 
The land within the ocean, 

The nurse of early years. 
When friends await the greeting. 

The blissful moment's come, 
Enraptured is the meeting. 

And sweet the welcome home. 



( -240 ) 



AN ADDRESS TO A VIOLET, 

OCCASIONED BY READING TPIE FOLLOWING LINES IN AN ADDRESS TO 
THE SAME FLOWER. 



Oh ! stay awhile, till warmer showers 
And brighter suns shall on thee play." 



That thou should'st not thy charms unfold, 
And shed thy sweets when winds are cold, 
Some reckless mortal bids thee stay 
Till milder beams shall on thee play, 
To chase the cheerless blast, and warm 
Thy lovely, gentle, fragrant form. 

Oh ! heed thee not the changeful thing ; 
But come the earliest pride of spring. 
And when her robes thy features bear. 
Fond love shall come and meet thee there. 

And when in lonely glens thou'rt found. 
And youth shall tread the fairy ground, 
Of soft emotions thou shalt tell 
With which their gentle bosoms swell. 
When hope is weak, and love is young 
And dreads to venture on the tongue. 



( 241 ) 

A meed thou'lt be, when cull'd with care, 
To some sweet, blooming, guileless fair ; 
And as from hand to hand thou'rt past. 
The pressure soft — the eye downcast — • 
The crimson'd blush, and trembling frame, 
Will speak of what they dare not name. 

And thou shalt in her bosom lie 

And move to many a gentle sigh. 

And charm the thought and please the breath. 

Till thou by love art nurs'd to death. 

Should'st thou await a warmer hour 

Thou'lt rivals meet in every bower. 

Whose pompous forms will shade from view 

Thy lowly simple head of blue, 

And in the breeze around thee play 

In flow'ry pride and colours gay. 

And soon the eye allure from thee, 

And win the love which thine should be. 

But 'tis in specious charms they shine. 
That yield no sweets in worth like thine. 
But such too oft to favour rise. 
Whilst worth, neglected, fades and dies. 

R 



( '24^2 ) 

Then let thy favour 'd form appear 
As erst, and when no rival's near ; 
And still youth's happy emblem prove. 
And show the sweets of early love ; 
And still in glens remote and wild 
Be nature's first and sweetest child. 



{ £43 ) 



JANE BARNABY. 



Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

I'm wearing wan, and old. 
As herds at close of eve, Jane, 

Are summon' d to the fold, 
I soon to mine shall be, Jane, 

My close of life is near, 
And much I need our Shepherd's care, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 



Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

I'm wearisome on earth. 
Nor less in want of aid, Jane, 

Than when I had my birth ; 
Then with a mother's love, Jane, 

I strengthen'd with the year. 
But now I'm fast upon the wane, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 
R 2 



( 244 ) 

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

Death, terrorless, I see, 
My only source of woe, Jane, 

Is lonely leaving thee ; 
But purity of life, Jane, 

Hath won thee hearts sincere, 
And love will yield thee fellowship, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

Thy tenderness is sweet. 
And grateful is this heart 

That soon will cease to beat. 
Thou wert its earliest love, Jane, 

Thou art its solace here, 
Thou'lt be its last remembrance, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

There's bliss divine in store. 
And soft will be the calm, Jane, 

When troubled life is o'er ; 
Then in my weal rejoice, Jane, 

When I shall disappear. 
Nor bathe thy pillow with thy tears, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 



( 245 ) 

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

I go where thou shalt come, 
And that shall be om^ last, Jane, 

Our undivided home. 
The painful there shall rest, Jane, 

The weary shall have cheer, 
'Tis virtue's sweet Elysium, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, 

Life's flood is ebbing fast, 
A few more soft'ning sighs, Jane, 

The shoals will all be past. 
To bear my spirit hence, Jane, 

Death's bark is hov'ring near ; 
Adieu, adieu, a short adieu, 

Jane Barnaby, my dear. 



( ^46 ) 



SALLY ROY. 



Thou art gentle in thy nature, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 

Thou art comely in each feature, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 

Thou art sweet, and thou'rt endearing, 

Thou art kind, and thou art cheering. 

E'er in loveliness appearing, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy. 

As the sun the morning brightens, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 
As the moon the evening lightens, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 
To the world a light thou'rt lending. 
Worth and beauty in it blending. 
Oh! thou'rt one of Heaven's sending, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy. 

For the love of thy assistance, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 

May'st thou beam thro' my existence, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy. 



( 247 ) 

Should the cares of life distress me^ 
With sweet comfort thou'lt address me, 
Like an angel sent to bless me, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy. 

Should the frown of fate hang o'er me, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 
Should'st thou fade and die before me, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy, 
Oh ! the tears of grief will blind me. 
In a dark world left behind thee, 
Not a ray of hope will find me, 

Sally Roy, Sally Roy. 



( 248 ) 



BY LOVE WE WERE LED, JANE. 



By love we were led, Jane, 

To woo and to wed, Jane, 
To promise, in consort, life's journey to go; 

In ailment, in health, Jane, 

In want, and in wealth, Jane, 
To mingle our portions of pleasure and woe. 

As onwards we steal, Jane, 

Each turn may reveal, Jane, 
Some pleasing allurement to tempt us to stray; 

And envy and strife, Jane, 

Annoyants of life, Jane, 
May ruffle our bosoms, and trouble our way. 

And hence 'twill be meet, Jane, 

If life shall be sweet, Jane, 
With caution and love undivided to steer ; 

To tread in the road, Jane, 

Where prudence hath trode, Jane, 
And take at the dwelling of reason our cheer. 



( 249 ) 

To shun in -the crowd, Jane, 

The pert and the proud, Jane, 
The vile, and the profligate, mean, and the vain; 

To truth to adhere, Jane, 

And virtue revere, Jane, 
That worth may be pleas'd to be seen in our train. 

There are some who may tire, Jane, 

And aidance require, Jane, 
And many a bosom affliction may pain; 

O'er those we should bend, Jane, 

And pity extend, Jane, 
The sorrowful cheer, and the needy sustain. 

We daily should call, Jane, 

On Him who rules all, Jane, 
And render him thanks for the help he hath given; 

Repent, if we have stray' d, Jane, 

And sue for His aid, Jane, 
To guide us thro' all the world's mazes to Heav'n. 

If thus we conform, Jane, 

In every rude storm, Jane, 
A charm o'er the mind will in stillness console ; 

And turning at last, Jane, 

To gaze on the past, Jane, 
How sweetly the scene will give cheer to the soul. 



( 250 ) 



A FANCIFUL DESCRIPTION OF A PASSAGE DOWN 

PART OF THE RIVER WYE, OF A COTTAGE 

AND ITS INHABITANTS, &c. 



A Fr 



AGMENT. 



Mid scenes where nature, robed in sweet attire, 
Yields charms to please, and grandeur to inspire, 
Where fancy grows enraptured as she views. 
The Wye her lovely winding course pursues, 
Whose airy turns, quick as in sport, delight. 
For every turn pours transport on the sight. 

High shelving hills in daring forms surprise, 
And shade o'er shade in proud progression rise, 
Dividing those with gentle slopes between 
Vale vale succeeding variegates the scene 
Of clustered fields, which teem with waving grain 
Meandering streams fast murmuring for the main, 
And lawns and herds, the passing eye admires; 
And village churches crown'd with humble spires, 
And peeping cots with, pliant to the breeze, 
The curling smoke ascending thro' the trees; 



( 251 ) 

And orchards, ranged in uniform array, 
In various tints their various fruits display, 
And shallows oft admitting thirsty cows, 
And staring cow-boys jerking awkward bows. 

Oft thro' some space a wild-heath hill is seen. 
And lesser hills progressive rise between ; 
Those groups of herds, in fleecy concourse line, 
And blooming whins in yellow spangles shine. 
Round some a pass, beguileful of their steeps. 
In length 'ning windings to the summit creeps ; 
The traveller there who for his palfry feels. 
Dismounting, trails him patient at his heels. 
And onward climbs, with palpitating breast, 
Whilst fancy dwells on some lov'd spot to rest. 
There he is seen, where sweet expansions show 
Enchantment spread in nature's lap below. 

Of various mansions which those scenes disclose, 
Some display industry, and some repose. 
The drying net at some low dwelling tells 
Where, of the finny race, a scourger dwells ; 
The farmers shine with neat thatch'd stacks of corn. 
Some ancient piles, two sober yews adorn. 



( 252 ) 

Some smile with shrubs, and woven wood-bine 

bowers, 
Where oft the fair are seen midst beds of flowers. 
Some humble domes — for show, nor power, nor 

place, — 
Display a useful cultivated space. 

Thro' lovely changes thus the eyes are led 
To where old Tintern rears its ancient head, 
Whose lingering beauties time still leaves behind. 
To awe with grandeur and instruct mankind ; 
In ivy's arms the proud reserve is held, 
Whose strong attachment time hath not repell'd. 
And still, with zeal the like ne'er man inspired, 
'Tis sought in ruin, and in age admired. 
Leaving those gems of ancient art behind, 
Natm-e awaits to chase them from the mind. 
With all her powers arranged on either shore, 
In all the charms of her romantic store. 

Stupendous hills the current's course divide. 
With trees o'erspread, and branching out in pride. 
More bold and grand, some prominently reign. 
The sovereigns, and the nobles, in their train. 
Some rock breaks forth, and on each winding 

beams, 
As left and right by turns the current streams. 



{ 253 ) 

Each side, as each now in arrangement swell, 
In soft luxuriance slopes into a dell, 
Till winding where, between the opening glades. 
The lawns of Piercefield teem with lovely shades ; 
High on the brow is seen each verdant gleam, 
Thence, waving foliage, skirting to the stream. 
From trees in seeming strife, all up the steep. 
To view their charms reflected in the deep. 

Athwart the stream, worn bare by winter storms, 
Here cliffs arise in more gigantic forms ; 
Those tufts of trees in various shades surround, 
And minor rocks in many forms abound; 
Some from their beds in rugged shape emerge. 
And some with foliage crowding on the verge ; 
Round others torn with elemental strife 
Some old trees' roots are creeping after life, 
Which still they find, tho' mortal marvels how, 
And shed a few gay branches o'er the brow. 

The eye to ease, and give the ear its spells. 
Sweet Echo here with various handmaids dwells ; 
Arranged are those for intercourse of sound, 
Within communing distances around ; 
Weary nor listless, ready as they rise, 
No sound conveyed her unresounded dies. 



( 254 ) 

But quick, the like, her matchless art returns, 
The passing theme the next progressive learns, 
So on to each the airy charm is tost, 
Until escaping, 'tis in silence lost. 

As misers love where vast returns abound. 
Here rustics come for interest of sound; 
Fond swains are prone to hail their idols whence 
The name endeared reverberates on the sense. 
Here truant school-boys, ling'ring by the hour. 
Sustain reproof, to raise the mimic power; 
In sportive mood, respondence to invoke 
The sober woodman magnifies his stroke ; 
The milk-maid's song, the lowing of her cow. 
The herdsman's halloo, loit'ring on the brow. 
The neighing colts, which o'er their fences peep, 
The bleating flocks that browse along the steep. 
The sheep-dog's bark, restrictive of their bounds, 
The huntsman's horn, the concert of the hounds. 
The ploughman's shout when reynard breaks in 

view. 
The cracking whips of numbers who pursue. 
The crash of fences steeds unmanaged cause. 
The bursting laugh each luckless rider draws. 
The farmer's ire, whom beasts nor burthens spare, 
Affrighted rooks tumultuous in the air, 



( 255 ) 

Are heard and echo'd and re-echo'd here, 
Till sweet confusion crowds upon the ear. 

There lies between where those high rocks extend, 
And whence below expanding groves ascend, 
An open space of sweet enchanting ground, 
Lovely itself, and charm'd by all around. 
Where nature strews beneath the wand'rer's feet 
Luxuriant verdure and wild flowers sweet ; 
Where cluster 'd shrubs in wild divisions spread. 
Sweet in the breeze their fragrant essence shed ; 
And trees dispers'd, whose form their nature show. 
Less prone to rise than branch in peace below: 
So distant those, they seem, to fancy's eye. 
To shun the spot that rears a fellow nigh ; 
Or, loathing crowds, had from the woods retir'd, 
Or, proud of bulk, came forth to be admired. 
A winding walk through this enchantment steals, 
Where the deep dell a chaste abode reveals. 
A shelving hill, of rock and heath, behind. 
Conceals the dome and shields it from the wind; 
A space before a holly hedge defends, 
A tinkling gate communication lends, 
Which past, the eye's enraptured with a view 
Of fragrant flowers, adorn'd in every hue, 



( 256 ) 

In mounds arranged with taste and neatly drest, 
Which verdant bounds of well-shorn box invest ; 
Round these you're led by paths of golden dye 
To where the low-built mansion meets the eye ; 
A neat thatch'd roof o'erspreads its whiten'd walls, 
A vine's fond tendrils round its bosom crawls ; 
For light and air on either side is seen 
A vitreous bow, which wears a face of green; 
Distanced alike, a door the two divides. 
With tutor'd woodbines climbing up its sides; 
Uniting o'er, a flowery arch is made. 
Which odour yields to all who seek its shade. 
Its state internal no neglect betrays ; 
In modest neatness, taste the whole displays ; 
No want it feels, no luxury it shares. 
Objects for use, but none for show it wears, 
Save a few emblems on the mantel's height. 
And a few landscapes which engage the sight. 
And those, embellish'd with no common powers. 
The sweet beguilings of an inmate's hours. 
Who traced with fervor, or with fondness rear'd 
Some child of fancy, or some scene endear 'd. 

The sober matron of the household store 
The serious weight of threescore winters bore. 



( 257 ) 

But, prone to action and by temperance fed, 
Health's roseate bloom still o'er her features spread. 
Cast on, in youth, that intermediate state 
That lies between the lowly and the great, 
To pass enabled life on either side, 
As fate or chance her destiny might guide ; 
Assiduous bent, and flexible to bow, 
Should fortune fall and mix her with the low ; 
Of sense possess'd, accomplishments and ease 
That would, in scenes more elevated, please ; 
And, — what defects proud prejudice might find, 
Bright gems enrich'd of every moral kind. 



Full sixteen springs to this delightful glade 

Her tuneful tribute Philomel had paid. 

Since here she came in solitude to dwell, 

But who, none knew, and none from whence could 

tell. 
The curious sifted, others showed surprize. 
And rumour spread what falsehood could surmise; 
But truth and virtue from her dwelling stole. 
And shed some ray still fatal to the whole ; 
Each baneful drop some beam of merit dried, 
Conjecture sunk, and defamation died 



( 258 ) 

Mov'd in her train, and much her care engross'd, 
A child, whose years four summers' suns had 

cross'd, 
Whose opening gems, and charms of mental kind. 
Which pleas'd the eye, and charm'd to love the 

mind. 
Led fancy forward fondly to presume. 
When one should ripen and the other bloom, 
Of nature's gifts she would a store unfold. 
Sweet to the sense and lovely to behold. 

Attention watch'd, as comprehension grew. 
And spread fresh stores of knowledge to her view. 
And taught her fancy that its useful powers 
Would soften nature and delight the hours. 
And lead the mind by its enlightening beams 
To that pure fount whence flow life's hopeful 
streams. 

With life's best fruits was thus her reason charged, 
Her mind delighted and her sense enlarged ; 
Truth o'er the treasure ruled with conscious sway, 
And virtue awed each passion that would stray ; 
Mild temperance taught her where her confines 

went. 
Nor farther prudence e'er her wishes sent. 



( 259 ) 

Chaste her ideas, dignified her mind, 

With love, she felt compassion for mankind ; 

Serene in sorrow and in pleasure mild, 

And prone to solace every suffering child ; 

She gave to friendship sympathy in grief, 

A tear to pity, and to want relief; 

With mercy, error had instruction given. 

Which show'd the way repentance went to Heaven; 

And was, though bless'd with moral gifts so rare, 

In every movement graceful, sweet, and fair. 

The name of Gertrude bore the elder dame, 
Who call'd lanthe, and the younger came. 
But by what power her rule the fair obey'd. 
Was yet a secret time had not betray'd : 
None, save her ruler, knew the mystic clue. 
And ceaseless caution guarded all she knew. 

Quick at each call, in meek obedience ran 
A sober, simple, civil, serving man, 
Mild in his nature, but his will was strong ; 
His heart well-meaning but his judgment wrong; 
His bosom guileless and his aim direct. 
No arts he practised and would none suspect ; 
By objects lured of every specious kind. 
He sped, nor caution e'er his way defined, 
s2 



( 260 ) 

When shown the charm, with heedless haste he'd 

run, 
And oft became the dupe of fraud or fun. 

If small his wisdom, Nature's gifts were large. 
And many callings would his thrift discharge : 
The fruitful garden own'd his skilful powers. 
His care the herbage and his taste the flowers ; 
The hedge he trimm'd, the neat box borders shore, 
And made the lawn the nice green coat it wore ; 
He put the walk's fine mellow surface on. 
The knives he polish'd and the shoes he shone; 
The beer he brew'd, the cows he milk'd and fed. 
And in its chaise a patient donkey led; 
And wound each mistress round the summits nigh. 
Or launch'd the boat and trailed them on the Wye; 
And woo'd the maid, it may be meet to tell. 
And Job his name, and her's was Dollabelle. 

Thus, from the shouts mirth's wanton votaries 

raise. 
Gay pleasure's lurements and mad folly's praise, 
Here, pure in soul, sweet scenes in peace they trod. 
And shunn'd a troubled for a calm abode. 
And rural bliss in all its charms enjoy 'd. 
By cares unwearied, nor by crimes annoy 'd ; 



( 261 ) 

And with the needy shar'd the comforts given, 
And show'd the wealthy a sure way to Heaven. 

So have I seen, where potent springs abound, 
The water play in foaming eddies round, 
But shun the tumult as its whirls subside. 
And peaceful down its smooth-worn channel glide. 
Where long its pure unsullied course it held, 
By storm nor ruffled, nor by flood impell'd. 
And gave to Nature solace as it went. 
And to the world a placid mirror lent. 



( 262 ) 



WRITTEN IN ALNWICK CASTLE, 

November, 1823. 



Oh ! splendid old Alnwick, how glorious to trace 

In the lines which thy records contain, 
The daring exploits which ennobled the race 

Of the Lords of thy ancient domain. 
In the old feudal times, when the foe dared thy 
might, 

And thy vassals were zealous and brave, 
Thy valorous chiefs, ever first in the fight. 

Or courted renown or a grave. 

And many and bold were the bands that assail'd 

The peace of thy sumptuous halls ; 
And daring intruders, more distant, prevail'd, 

Which called for redress from thy walls ; 
But the rude hand of time hath now swept them 

away, 
And levelFd their domes to his will; 

Whilst thou art seen tow'ring more proudly to- 
day. 

And a Percy the lord of thee still. 



{ 263 )* 

But the mild rays of reason which beam on the earth, 

Have left those dark customs behind, 
And man, who ferocity learnt from his birth, 

Is become in his nature refined; 
Good fellowship reigns, and benevolence sheds 

Her solace in every degree. 
And bright is the stream, and benignly it spreads, 

Of her fount which arises in thee. 

The loud northern blast o'er thy turrets may blow, 

When winter thy portals invests, 
Such excellence dwells in thy bosom below, 

Such welcome and cheer for thy guests. 
That the season's unfelt, whilst the needy around. 

O'er whom thy indulgence prevails. 
In the strains of eulogium mingle their sound. 

And send forth thy praise on the gales. 

By the pillars of time may thy head be upheld. 

And ages yet pride in thy name. 
As the emblems are traced of thy sons who excell'd 

In the proud emulations of fame. 
May the currents of wealth which now flow in thy way, 

Ne'er cease in their ardour to run; 
Nor the name, nor the race of thy chieftain decay. 

Till the last thread of time shall be spun. 



( ^64 ) 



i. 



THE WORLD'S LIKE A TYRANT, &c. 



The world's like a tyrant and ruthless to me, 
No solace it yields, and none beaming I see, 
Tho' rugged my way, and I'm laden with care, 
No rest can I find with the burthen I bear. 

I have borne it till weary; yet time, as I go, 
Progressively adds to my measure of woe ; 
Oh ! would it were full, and more heavily prest, 
And that to earth's bosom it sunk me to rest. 

That my sle^ep will be sweet in the cradle of death, 
And my spirit rejoice in the stillness of breath, 
Is a comfort, by hope, thus in whisperings given, 
' There ! there ! thou shalt rest,' and it pointeth to 
Heaven. 



( 265 ) 



LAYER'S BANKS. 



To woo the morning air 

On Layer's banks I stray'd, 
And who should wander there 

But a lovely lonely maid. 
Who stood and on the streamlet gazed, 

Till tears fell from her eye. 
And mingled with the waters clear 

That slowly murmured by. 



To le^brn her source of woe 

I asked in accents mild, 
And if I could not comfort 

Afford to sorrow's child ? 
She said she wept for forms most dear, 

For ever from her gone, 
And whom from early childhood 

She had lov'd to look upon. 



( 266 ) 

Affection's tender eye 

A mother sought in vain, 
They had laid her in the grave 

Where her father long had lain. 
It touch'd the secret chord of love. 

And woke the heart to mourn, 
When thinking, like the passing stream. 

They never would return. 

I said, thou lovely maiden, 

Thy tears of sorrow stay ; 
The source still feeds the stream 

As the waters pass away ; 
And from the heavenly fount of life 

The current still flows on. 
Affording blessings on its way 

For those for ever gone. 

With those who sleep in death 

Be all thy cares resign'd, 
And turn on life a cheerful eye, 

And thou shalt comfort find. 
Oh ! would'st thou crown a wish but now 

Become my bosom's guest, 
I'd make thee mine and love thee dear. 

And lull thy cares to rest. 



( 267 ) 

As leaves in autumn die 

Unsuccour'd on the spray, 
Her woes uncherish'd in the mind 

Stole silently away. 
And soon her tender heart grew charm'd 

In love's soft glowing beam, 
And now we bless the happy morn 

We met by Laver's stream. 



( 268 ) 



MY MARY IS NO MORE! 



The airy choir the morning greets 

With harmony divine, 
The verdant spring with flow'ry sweets 

Strews every path but mine. 
My hopeful scenes of life are past, 

My dreams of bliss are o'er, 
My love's sweet rose its bloom hath cast, 

My Mary is no more ! 



Her voice surpass 'd in tuneful powers 

The sweetest birds that sing, 
Her charms excell'd the fairest flowers 

That scent the breath of spring ; 
A soul more pure, a heart more kind. 

So fair a form ne'er bore. 
And oh! what rays illumed her mind! 

But Mary is no more ! 



( 269 ) 

This blooming flower, so sweet and fair, 

On me its fragrance shed, 
I gave it all my love and care. 

And hope my wishes fed ; 
But e'er I cull'd the lovely gem 

The spoiler stept before, 
And pluck'd it rudely from its stem, 

And Mary is no more ! 



Celestial maid ! she's call'd to share 

The sweetest joys of heaven ; 
Her form was deem'd a bliss too rare 

To mortal to be given. 
Yet fancy still pourtrays her near, 

And views her o'er and o'er. 
Whilst beaming in each eye, a tear 

Says, Mary is no more! 



( ^70 ) 



REFLECTIONS 



ON VISITING A SPRING AT DIFFERENT SEASONS OF THE YEAR, 



'TwAS early in summer, and mild was the ray 
Which beam'd from the sun on the waning of day ; 
And the air was serene, and the leaves on the trees 
Were hardly emotion'd, so soft was the breeze ; 
The birds were in song in the wood on the hill, 
And softly a murmur arose from the rill 
Which ran thro' the mead, where its channel was 

. seen. 
By herbage more rude, and more tufted and green; 
The teams, clinking home, had the fallow resign'd, 
And whistling the ploughmen their cares to the wind. 
When, pensive and slow, up the hamlet I bent. 
And meeting the stream on its margin I went ; 
I stray'd to the spot whence it sprang from the earth. 
Most pure in its nature and silent its birth; 
It ran from a mound with green moss o'erspread. 
Its birth-place was shaded by shrubs at its head ; 
'Twas onward impell'd by its kindred more strong, 
And driven from home it went murmuring along. 



( 271 ) 

In indolent ease on the bank I reclin'd, 

And gazed on the stream, till awoke in my mind 

A thought of the joys in its windings 'twould yield. 

To the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. 

To the web-footed tribe on its surface that ride, 

And the bright-speckled trout in its bosom that glide, 

To the poor thirsty beggar who drinks in his palms, 

And softens the crusts he obtains for his alms; 

To the thrifty old dame who, with low-bowing head, 

Shall search it for cresses, to barter for bread; 

To the youth who, in groups, on its borders shall 

play. 
And launch their frail barks to be wreck'd in a day; 
To the low in their need, and the high in their pride, 
Who tenant the domes which are rear'd by its side. 
And I mentally said, as in beauty it ran, 
" Flow on thou bright stream, thou'rt a blessing to 

man." 



A hill rose before, which a clump of beech crown'd, 
Beguiling its steeps, to its summit I wound. 
And saw the smoke rise thro' the trees on the plain, 
From a mansion which stood in a stately domain. 
And my mind running in a contemplative stream, 
The worthy possessor it took for its theme. 



( 272 ) 

By wisdom admir'd, and by virtue belov'd, 
In the sphere of the great, Hke a magnet, he mov'd; 
His honour was firm, and his friendship esteem'd, 
Its warmth rose a charm where its influence beam'd; 
With nature serene, and with manners refin'd, 
He heighten'd the glory and joy of mankind. 

A stream of benevolence flow'd from his soul. 
And o'er its endowments had pity control, 
For succour, in need, from his hand to have dealt. 
No roof was too low, if there honesty dwelt ; 
And thus to the dwellings of want he was led. 
And the naked he cloth'd, and the hungry he fed, 
Instructed the young, and supported the old. 
In summer thro' heat, and in winter thro' cold. 

The midways of life, with a laudable zeal 

He trode, and was hail'd a promoter of weal; 

And many a soul would, in gratitude, tell, 

In an intricate case he had counsell'd him well. 

And o'er the expanse, as my vision I spread, 

I thought of the joys which his bounty had shed. 

And I said, tho' on earth few thy equals may be, 

To the spring at the mound, there's a likeness in thee. 

The summer was gone, and the autumn was past. 
And winter's stern mandates were borne on the blast, 



( 273 )■ 

So ruthless it reign d in its scourge of distress, 
The sun lost its strength, and sweet nature her dress. 
The birds in sad silence their grievances bore. 
The red-breast alone sang for crumbs at my door; 
All barren the plains, and the herds, by the cold. 
Were chas'd from the pastures, and fed in the fold. 
I listened, but heard not a sound from the stream. 
My eye on the fallow discern'd not a team ; 
The ploughman's shrill notes, too, had ceas'd to be 

rife, 
His hands begg'd his breath at the threshold of life. 
To the streamlet, when wrapt in my mantle, I sped, 
But its motion was still'd, and its visitants fled; 
No float on its surface was gliding its way, 
No object was seen on its bosom to play. 
No draught it afforded, no charm it display'd. 
Its beauty was lost when its bounty was staid; 
Those souls, in whose need, 'twas not wont to deny, 
Now wound from earth's bosom, by toil, a supply ; 
And yet, by its source, 'twas in amplitude fed, 
But, chill'd at its birth, it lay useless and dead; 
And I thought of the tribe, that its state would 

deplore. 
And I said, what a change since I saw thee before. 
The hill I surmounted, 'twas bleak on the brow, 
And dreary the view it afforded me now, 

T 



( 274 ) 

Their late golden plumes, from the trees had been 

torn, 
Nor a hawberry left for a bird on a thorn ; 
The dome, on the plain, I was wont to admire, 
Now show'd by its smoke a reduction of fire. 
For death, like the season, a change had wrought there, 
Man's comforter gone, and a miser his heir — 
So deep in whose nature was avarice grown, 
Tho' large his possessions, no bounty was shown. 
Distress o'er the hamlet soon mournfully spread. 
The poor unemployed, and their children unfed; 
The sick on their pallets in wretchedness pined. 
Their solace was gone, and its sources confined; 
The dome was in sorrow's dark heraldry drest. 
Its cheer was expended, and mirth was suppress'd; 
The stalls were all vacant, the timber had bow'd. 
No herds rang'd the meadows, the pastures were 

plough'd ; 
The old neighing favourites that stray'd o'er the 

ground. 
Were led to the kennels, and slain for the hounds. 
The cellars were emptied, the servants discharged. 
Expenditure lessen'd, and income enlarged. 
And 1 said, in thy soul there's a semblance reveal'd, 
To the spring at the mound now 'tis cold and con- 

geal'd. 



( 275 ) 

To the cold cell of death soon the miser was borne, 
And great was his grief from his hoards to be torn : 
'Twas thought he would pass from his objects of love 
Unregretted below, and unwelcom'd above. 
Howe'er his disposal, his God may arrange, 
The mortals were few who rejoic'd at the change ; 
For the currents of wealth which he damm'd, in his 

haste, 
A prodigal turn'd into riot and waste ; 
Down courses voluptuous it stream'd to the brink, 
And dry was each space where the thirsty would drink; 
For sensual pleasures 'twas destined to flow. 
Lured virtue from peace, and then sank her in woe. 

And when a strong winter was loosing its hold. 

To see what the scene might to fancy unfold, 

I thought, to the spring as I wandered once more, 

A resemblance it now to the prodigal bore. 

As the air lost its sting, and the water its chains, 

In wanton confusion it ran o'er the plains ; 

As the mass at its head was expent by the sun. 

Its virtues were lost in the courses it run ; 

Its heart yet unsoften'd, a passage denied 

To all whom its bounty once amply supplied; 

Down easy descents it was sportively led. 

And o'er surfaces fair devastation it spread. 



( 276 ) 

Yet time, I thought, soon would its wand'rings arrest, 

And objects again with its uses be blest; 

But the wasture of wealth, the world long might 

lament, 
For reckless is Man till his substance be spent. 



( S77 ) 



MARY ST. CLAIR. 



How my heart yearns for thee, Mary St. Clah", 
Fondly it turns to thee, Mary St. Clair ; 
Tho' pangs of hopeless care, 
Thou doom'st my breast to bear, 
Still thou art cherish'd there, Mary St. Clair ! 

Till my heart cease to glow, Mary St. Clair, 
Till my blood cease to flow, Mary St. Clair, 

Thy lovely form shall be 

Dearest on earth to me, 
Tho' no kind word from thee soothes my despair 

Should I despairing die, Mary St. Clair, 
Life, love, without thee, I never can bear ; 

Follow my mournful bier, 

Let fall a grateful tear 
O'er him who lov'd thee dear Mary St. Clair ! 



( 278 ) 



ORRAN AND BERTHA. 



" Come, Bertha, the Sprmg is its influence shedding. 
O'er hill and o'er dale the gay verdure is spreading, 
The leaves clothe the branches, the birds are all 
wedding, 
The world looks around us both lovely and rare; 
Since bountiful Nature's such beauties exposing, 
Let's stray o'er the hills ere the day shall be closing; 
The dews will be falling, the birds will be dozing. 
Come ! haste, my love, haste !" said the youth to 
the fair. 



Her nature inclin'd to her lover's inviting. 

The beauties of Spring to her heart were delighting. 

Love's purest emotions her thoughts were exciting 

To scenes most congenial, its pleasures to share. 
With Nature and Love every sentiment warming. 
With smiles sweet and tender, in dress most adorning. 
She look'd like the Spring in the freshness of morning, 

When Orran in his link'd the arm of his fair. 



( 279 ) 

The scenes which the Winter had robb'd of their 

treasure 
Were shunn'd, hke to man under Fortune's displea- 
sure, 
But in their new vestments were greeted with pleasure 

By every tun'd bird which enlivens the air ; 
Their clothing was sweet and the music transporting, 
The flowers on the breeze were their fragrance ex- 
porting. 
The doves were heard cooing — the lambs were seen 
sporting. 
All yielding delight to the youth and his fair. 



Here, through a green tuft, the pale primrose was 

peeping; 
There, round a wild shrub, the sweet woodbine was 

creeping ; 
Each scene, in advance, had some joy in its keeping 

Congenial to love and beguileful of care ; 
Thus, charm'd in their progress, still charm'd they 

proceeded; 
Now Nature, now Love, in engaging succeeded. 
No thought was left vacant for Time, who, unheeded. 
Stole by, and was closing day's scene on the pair. 



( ^80 ) 

They stray'd o'er the hills every feature admiring, 
Till day, for the loss of the sun, was expiring ; 
The clouds look'd as tho' they were something con- 
spiring 

To check in their glory the fond loving pair. 
The birds in succession their harmony slighted. 
Til nature grew dim and no longer delighted, 
" A wild storm's approaching, we shall be benighted. 

Come, haste, my love, haste," said the youth to the 
fair. 

Their steps they retraced with what speed they could 

master ; 
The storm was revengeful, and hurried on faster. 
Soon darkness o'erspread them, oh! luckless disaster, 

What troubles some mortals are destin'd to bear ! 
The hollow blast blew, and the rain began streaming. 
And foam'd down the hills whilst the lightning was 

beaming. 
The thunder rolFd loud, and the fair one was scream- 
ing, 
*' Take comfort, my love!" said the youth to the fair. 

Oh! where is there comfort? alas! do but say, love — 
Nor comfort nor hope will be found but with day, love, 
Shall not we be wandering the long night astray, love? 
Oh! tell me, my Orran, and ease my despair." 



( 281 ) 

" Hush ! no, my love, no, all our cares are dispelling, 
I now hear the stream that flows near to thy dwelling. 
From each growing source 'twill with anger be swell- 
ing. 
Come, haste, that in safety we pass it, my fair." 

But through the dark night they were long in explor- 
ing 

Their way to the stream, which was traced by its 
roaring. 

When, wild, down the hills the rough torrents came 
pouring ; 
'Twas swell'd — that to pass it few mortals would 
dare. 

" Oh ! stay, my lov'd Bertha, oh ! stay, e'er you 
venture, 

I'll ford the rude waters; perchance in the centre 

Too deep 'twill be found for love's treasure to enter; 

Oh ! stay, my love, stay," said the youth to the fair. 

He plunged in the stream with a fond lover's pleasure, 
He stemm'd the rough torrent its deep bed to measure, 
No space was propitious to bear o'er his treasure. 
His strength was exhausting, his heart worn with 
care ; 



( 282 ) 

He still persevered, still love's ardour expos'd him, 
Rude objects, borne down with the current, oppos'd 

him ; 
He struggled, 'twas vain, the deep waters enclos'd him, 
And down with the flood he was forced from his fair. 

She heard the last effort with which he contended. 
She heard the last cry which his bosom expended. 
She lists — yet again, — but the conflict was ended. 

No effort, no voice, and no Orran was there. 
Bereft and forlorn, with such woes to confound her. 
The loud clashing elements beating around her, 
The day dawned, when frantic the villagers found her, 

Crying " Orran, why stay you so long from your 
fair?" 

When loud beats the storm, to her woes it awakes 

her. 
And o'er them shell ponder till reason forsakes her, 
And, carelessly robed, from her home will betake her. 

And lonely and sad to the waters repair : 
And gaze on the stream, and bewail her adorer. 
And fondly beseech it her love to restore her. 
And say to each object that fleeteth before her, 

" Oh! tell him to haste with love's speed to his 
fair." 



( 28S ) 



THE CHILDREN'S DIRGE 

AT THE INTERMENT OF A GOLD FISH. 

Little fish, whose lovely dye 
Nature gave to charm the eye, 
Magnified in water clear, 
Gliding in thy glassy sphere 
To and fro, in gold attir'd. 
Proud and pleased to be admired ; 
We have seen thee in thy day. 
Beaming bright and frisking gay. 
Deeming not that death so true 
Soon might come and change thy hue. 
And that eyes which felt delight 
Soon would wish thee out of sight ; 
But 'tis done, and life's no more. 
All thy pride and glitter's o'er ; 
All thy charms have felt decay. 
Admiration steals away. 
Thou^st but play'd a pageant part. 
Won the eyes without the heart ; 
What alone the eyes revere. 
Goes like thee without a tear. . 



( 284 ) 

Little fish, thy life was spent 
Not as life for us is meant ; 
We, however fair, must be 
More adorn'd internally ; 
Not applause to wish to gain 
By a course so light and vain ; 
Not by specious means excite 
Love that vanishes with sight; 
Not to trifle time away ; 
We have mental dues to pay. 
We must store within the mind 
All that sense and worth can find ; 
'Twill create affection strong, 
Rooting deep and lasting long ; 
'Twill- adorn us when in breath, 
'Twill exalt us after death. 

Here thy long night's bed is made. 
Deep beneath the verdant blade ; 
Thou therein must lie and rot. 
Turn to earth and be forgot ; 
But in this, thou simple thing, 
Honour treats thee like a king. 
Get thee in and hide from view, 
Little golden fish, adieu ! 



( 285 ) 



AN EXCUSE 

TO 

A YOUNG LADY, 

FOR NOT WRITING SOME VERSES ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 



You ask on the day 

Of your birth for a lay, 
And like other themes of the kind. 

It must run in a strain 

(For young ladies are vain) 
Of praise, both of person and mind. 

But I'll wait, if you please, 

For my own love of ease. 
Your merits as well to requite ; 

They'll be better pourtray'd 

When, by time and your aid. 
They are brought more conspicuous to life. 



( 286 ) 



WRITTEN FOR 

A YOUNG LADY 

TO PRESENT TO HER PARENTS ON THE FIRST DAY OF THE 
YEAR 1825. 



The morn's awoke that one year more 
Gives Time to number with his score, 
And adds, for youth that would aspire, 
A step to climb a little higher ; 
But bears, alas! with less of will. 
On burthen'd age more heavy still. 

Though mild hath been, in rule the past. 
It oft to ire provoked the blast, 
And rous'd old Ocean into strife. 
Who prodigal hath been of life ; 
And in its lingering latest hours 
Man bent, contracted by its powers ; 
The air it arm'd, congeal'd the plains, 
And nature left embound in chains. 
When not an odour scents the breeze. 
When only ice-drops pearl the trees. 



( 287 ) 

And not a bird is heard to sing, 

And not an insect on the wing, 

And not to run is heard a rill ; 

In bondage earth, and labour still ; 

When hoary meads no verdure yield, 

And famish'd flocks forsake the field, 

And nature in her wide controul 

Hath not a charm to soothe the soul; — 

When in the dearth of joys to please. 

You slumber in domestic ease. 

Oh ! have an hour of gloom beguil'd, 

And hear the wish that moves your child. 

Oh ! may the stranger, newly told, 
To you congenial scenes unfold; 
And may no season, in its reign, 
A rugged, evil hour contain, 
But all be calm and all be kind, 
To please the eye and soothe the mind; 
The spring, refreshing, soft, and rare, 
The summer blooming, sweet, and fair. 
And autumn, in its bounty great. 
And winter in its mildest state. 
And may, in neither, ruthless storms 
Defeat the hopes which reason forms. 



( 288 ) 

May I, in mental powers, disclose 
In every change, such worth as those; 
Enticed along to sense and thought, 
With care, and fond affection, taught ; 
May I fair buds of promise show. 
And shed endearments as I go ; 
And may the blossoms of the mind 
Diffiise the fragrance of its kind. 
Until, matured by time, it bears 
The fruits that bless a parent's cares. 



( 289 ) 



LINES 

ON PARTING FROM MISS H. 

WHEN TWO YEARS OLD, 



Thou lovely, sweet engaging dear ! 
Thy artless prattling tongue to hear, 
Thy ways to trace, thy smiles to view% 
Thy dimpled cheeks of rosy hue, 
Make every heart enraptur'd move 
With admiration, and with love. 



Can I, who've borne thee in my arms 
So oft, — thou daw^ning bud of charms ! 
Can I each tender thought repel, 
And take a listless, cold farewell ? 
No, no, sweet child! fi'om thee to part. 
Creates emotions in my heart. 
Which ne'er will be by aught repress'd. 
Till time one thought shall lull to rest ; 
A thought that this fond look may be 
The last I e'er may have of thee. 
u 



( 290 ) 

Where'er my wandering steps may stray, 
Howe'er my thoughts may fade away, 
Most dear will one for thee remain. 
Till I nor stray nor think again. 

May thine and every mortal's friend 
His care to thee, and love, extend. 
And shield thee thro' this vale of life, 
In every scene of woe and strife ! 

But if, for thy eternal weal, 

Tis meet thou should'st of sorrow feel. 

To calm desire, or change the will. 

To call some wandering thoughts from ill. 

To train them in the track allow'd. 

To curb the vain and bend the proud; 

May but to thee enough be given 

To show how sweet's the path to Heaven ! 



S91 ) 



THOU TELL'ST ME, MY LOVE, &c. 



Thou tell'st me, my love with thy bloom will be 

fleeting, 
Or cool, like the eve, when the sun wears away; 
But in thy fair bosom such virtues are meeting. 
As love will ensure when thy beauties decay. 
Then grieve not, if time throws a shade o'er each 

feature ; 
No loss of thy charms shall my favour controul, 
Nor toil to secure them, but leave them to nature, 
I love thee for those far more dear to the soul. 

The Ivy so green, yon old structure entwining, 
Withstands the rude shock of each tempest that 

blows. 
And seems to its object more proudly inclining, 
As, year after year, fast to ruin it goes ; 
And so on in years will I solace and bless thee, 
Tho' time may be ruthless and prey on thy charms; 
As Ivy — the ruin, I'll fondly caress thee, 
Until the last relic shall fall from my arms. 
u 2 



( 292 ) 

But ere from the branches the pile may be shaken, 
Some hand to the root may a weapon apply. 
And from its atti'action averse to be taken, 
'Twill cling on its bosom repining, and die. 
And thus, if by Fate, life's career to be ending, 
A bow should be bent, and the shaft should be 

mine. 
Reluctant to leave thee, my fond arms extending 
More firmly around thee, I'd wither on thine. 



( 29S ) 



LOUISA TO JULIA, 

WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS, 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY IN NOVEMBER. 



Tho' dreary the season, and gloomy the hour, 
The day hath a charm, and revered it shall be, 
One thought it awakens, most sweet in its power, 
It gave, in its kindness, a sister to me. 

Then Julia, this bouquet accept on the day. 
And give me a smile of regard in exchange ; 
In us, as in Winter, these show not decay. 
The sweets of affection no season shall change. 



( 294 ) 



TO MARIA, 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

The pensive soul, with joys imprest, 

Will trace the source from which they flow; 

The grateful heart will know no rest. 

Till it its fond emotions show; 

Man's mind — research, his fear and love 

Are led by this to realms above. 

Whate'er in nature charms his eyes, 
Whate'er mild form his heart holds dear, 
His health, the bliss his friend supplies. 
His night's repose, his daily cheer, — 
Howe'er, on earth, to him they're given. 
They flow from the pure fount of Heaven. 

Yon tree, now waving in the wind. 
Comes yearly bending with its fruit, 
Shall it awake remembrance kind. 
And not the power which gave it root ? 
Love wanting thought's too weak to rise, 
Reflection bears it to the skies. 



( 295 ) 

Now in the soft'nings of my care, 
I feel, my friend, I'm largely bless'd, 
By those sweet fruits of virtues rare 
By Heaven implanted in thy breast ; 
Their bed my tenderest care shall be. 
And He my praise who made it thee. 

Yes! thou shalt be, beneath mine eye, 
With friendship's mildest nurture fed, 
And no vile weed shall come thee nigh, 
And no rude foot shall on thee tread. 
Nor in each season's keenest hour 
Shall e'er my will repress my power. 

May He, who with those fruits and flowers 
Thy mind enrich'd, and graced thy form. 
Refresh thee with congenial showers. 
And shield thee from each ruthless storm ! 
That long each rising fair may find 
A form by which to shape her mind. 



( 296 ) 



TO A FRIEND OF EARLY LIFE, 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 



Does not the man of soul sincere, 
Who holds his country's welfare dear. 
Rejoice when noble deeds are done, 
And battles fought, and victories won. 
When Justice makes Oppression yield, 
And Honour triumphs in the field? 

Does not within his bosom bound 
His heart, when time, revolving round, 
A day unfolds, on which the Sun 
Of Glory o'er his country shone. 
And when his sires, with dauntless zeal, 
Preferr'd to life, its fame and weal ? 

And such a soul shall comprehend 

As sweet sensations for a friend. 

Who, in domestic life, is great 

As any pillar to the state; 

Who treads the mazy scenes of youth 

With honour, chastity, and truth; 



( ^97 ) 

Whose gentle heart's by nature kind, 
Whose moral precepts charm the mind, 
Who shuns the baneful haunts of strife, 
And woos the tranquil scenes of life, 
In whose whole course a charm's unfurl'd. 
Which binds our natures to the world. 

Now passing on from youth to age. 
Where cares oppress in every stage, 
Where lurking ills poor life annoy, 
And aim a shaft at every joy; 
Mild, from thy way, those virtues beam. 
Illume my paths, and wake my theme; 
Nor could I, conscious of thy worth, 
Deny the day which gave thee birth, 
To let my muse my thoughts rehearse. 
In humble, but in grateful verse. 

We, from the strange promiscuous throng, 
Which crowd life's devious course along. 
Were by our guide design'd to steer 
Our way awhile, unsever'd here; 
And many a rugged day, and rude. 
When ills would frown, and cares obtrude. 
We social aid each other lent. 
To chase the gloom of discontent. 



( 298 ) 

May long, my friend, our progress be 
Through scenes remote from enmity; 
But ne'er, to man, will fate disclose, 
Or how it lies, or where it goes ; 
But tho' bedimm'd we thus advance. 
Thro' turnings various, left to chance, 
We still may trace where prudence sped, 
And on with hope and cheerful tread; 
Nor go shall prudence, cautious fair. 
Through scenes that know no troubles there. 
But those, my friend, tho' keenly felt. 
Are Heaven's decrees, and kindly dealt. 

Or if, from hence, our progress leads 
Through dreary ways or flow'ry meads, 
Or vales of bliss, or hills of care. 
Or barren heaths of shelter bare. 
How soon we each our road may change, 
For fate will worldly schemes derange. 
Our journey long, or period near. 
He only knows who sent us here. 

And He, alone, possesses power. 

To shorten or prolong the hour; 

He kens where tends man's restless will, 

Unerring Judge of good and ill ; 



( ^99 ) 

O'er weal and woe, control He wields, 
And to the soul its portion deals; 
Then should not man due reverence show 
To Him, from whom his blessings flow, 
By yielding thanks for those in store. 
And humbly hoping still for more. 

When, mingling on in life's advance, 
Thou'lt meet at some strange turn of chance, 
A soul of whom fate may approve 
To lead thee down the paths of love, ' 
Win sweet consent, become allied, 
And bear thee hence a hopeful bride : 
Whate'er new paths thy feet shall press, 
Whate'er new friends thy form shall bless, 
Whate'er new charms to thee reveal. 
Oft o'er the past thy thoughts will steal; 
And as on youthful scenes they dwell. 
Of souls endear'd will memory tell, 
When thus thy pensive mind shall stray. 
And at this period pause and say. 
In calms, in storms, in suns, and showers, 
Here friendship cheer'd the passing hours. 



( 300 ) 
LINES 

WRITTEN FOR 

MISS L. S. BRUERE TO PRESENT TO HER MOTHER 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

Yon orb, my Mamma, the luminary of earth, 
Beams bright on the morn of the day of my birth, 
And fondly I come, ere it fades to the view, 
To tender my heart's young emotions to you; 
Emotions, Mamma, which instinctively rise. 
With each thought of the form that gave light to 
mine eyes. 

I bring, my Mamma, for affection and care, 
As much as a bosom so tender can bear; 
And am rearing a hope, that, as reason appears, 
My love and my duty will strengthen with years ; 
And am nursing a thought, that, with you for my 

guide, 
To solace your love, I may merit your pride. 

To render. Mamma, as life's summit I gain. 
Each step, as I rise, uncreative of pain,— 
I'll aim, in advancing, with diligence kind. 
To shape by your precepts the frame of my mind ; 
And its form will be pure, and its nature be mild. 
Should your image, Mamma, be discern'd in your 
child. 



( 301 ) 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO THE 

MISSES L. AND T. SADLIER BRUERE, 

ON THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR 1824. 

Time's last son on record, the year that is dead. 
Which left you in charge of the one in its stead. 
In safety hath borne you, on land and by sea. 
In sickness and sorrow, and left you in glee: 
And may its successor, as well as the past. 
In safety enshroud you in every rude blast! 
For in worth, and in charms, ye are early and rife, 
Two sweet little flowers in the garden of life. 
As fresh as the rose, and as fair as the day. 
And as mild and as sweet as the mornings in May. 
Tho' tender in stalk, ye are lovely in hue. 
Few flowers in the gardens more hopeful to view, 
And long may ye bloom, and give joy to the eye, 
Refresh'd by the dews which are shed from on 

high; 
And still may the sense by your fragrance be 

charm'd, 
As still by the rays of affection you're warm'd ; 
Expanding in thought, as you're cultur'd with care. 
Till time shall have form'd you as perfect as fair! 



( 302 ) 

May venomous weeds ne'er anigh you be found, 
To poison your sweets, or unhallow the ground. 
But still in the garden, two favourites, stay. 
Till leaf after leaf of your bloom falls away; 
And hence when remov'd, for the loss they sustain. 
They who mourn you be bless'd with a hope of your 

gain, 
A hope that, tho' lost to the world and its love, 
To flourish more fair you're transplanted above ! 



( 803 ) 
LINES 

WRITTEN FOR 

MISS L. S. B. TO PRESENT TO HER MOTHER, 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 

WITH SOME PRIMROSES AND VIOLETS. 

With primroses pale, and with violets blue, 
The Spring hath the first robe of nature array'd, 
I cull'd these with care, and I bring them to you, 
From a sense that your love should with sweets 
be repaid. 

They well will denote, to your vigilant eye, 
The expansion of scenes more endear'd to the sight, 
As the great orb of day shall ascend in the sky. 
Sweet Nature will beam in her glory more bright. 

On earth introduced with those sweetest of flowers, 
May I, as with joy they the senses renew. 
Inhaling their fragrance, inherit their powers, 
And shed, in each season, a sweetness on you! 

And if the advancement of charms they disclose. 
In which the endowments of Nature combine, 
May the sweets that I breathe have the virtue of 

those. 
And gladden your heart with the progress of mine ! 



( 304 ) 



WRITTEN FOR A. S. B. 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WHEN EIGHT YEARS OLD, 
December 17th, 1828. 



Yes! I'm advanced another year. 

Another's sunk behind me ; 
But who, when this shall disappear, 

Knows where the next may find me? 
For, as the sun one day beams clear, 

And may the next be clouded, 
I may to-day in life appear. 

And be to-morrow shrouded. 

Since life is but a dubious state. 

And over its existence 
Presides a Being good as great, 

ril ask His kind assistance. 
In climbing on from youth to age, 

And every year I heighten. 
Let such pursuits my mind engage, 

As may in honour brighten. 



( 805 ) 

Contending with my tasks of life, 

Some mazes may perplex me, 
Which should be met with noble strife, 

Not irritate, nor vex me. 
Such combats will exalt the soul. 

As still my journey lengthens. 
And give the mind still more controul, 

As year by year it strengthens. 

Sweet love and care were, day by day, 

Throughout the last, my portion. 
And shall it from me pass away 

Without one fond emotion? 
Oh no! a thought's most kindly felt 

For all the joys I'm knowing, 
I love those souls by whom they're dealt. 

And Him from v/hom they're flowing. 

May still such hopes beam from my mind 

As stimulate affection, 
And still my guardian Angel find 

Me worthy of protection ! 
If, cheer'd by love and led by care, 

I gain life's highest station. 
Oh, may my grateful spirit there 

Promote its own salvation! 



( 30G ) 



ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON 



Thy destiny's cast and before thee ; 

And sever'd thy body and breath, 
Thou'rt left, and the Muses deplore thee, 

On the dark and cold desert of death. 

The strains of thy lyre were enchanting. 
And bore over nature controul. 

But yet was another chord wanting, 
To attune it more sweet to the soul. 

The sound that's to merit inspiring, 
Its sweet introduction to love, 

And cheering to worth in aspiring 
To a seat with the blissful above. 

Tho' reckless of these was thy story, 
And left to more impotent lays. 

The Corsair shall glow in thy glory. 
The Wanton shall bask in thy praise. 



I 



( 307 ) 

The isle of thy birth is the rarest, 
Thy home was the proudest to have, 

The fair of^her soil are the fairest. 
The bravest, her sons, of the brave. 

The land of thy sires was forsaken. 

Its worthies thy genius abused, 
No pride in her virgins was taken. 

Its sons were a tribute refused. 

In climes now inglorious a ranger. 
With passions unbridled and strong. 

Love's current was turn'd on the stranger. 
And the dissolute nurs'd in thy song. 

Had thy fame and thy country's together 
In an orbit conjunctively shone, 

'Twould have beam'd on illuming each other, 
Till Time had extinguisK'd the sun. 



x2 



( 308 ) 



ON THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 



In storm and tempest arose the day, 

Which showed the foe to view, 
Who, vain and impatient for the fray, 
Aloud the onset blew; 

And the fight with vengeful ire began. 
And the fire in ceaseless thunder ran, 
From line to line, and from man to man. 
Death's shafts destructive flew. 



The hearts were brave, and the bands were strong. 

Which hope led to the field. 
The fight was fierce, and the strife was long, 
And neither host would yield : 

When many valorous deeds were done, 
And the day by patient prowess won. 
Then on England's triumph set the sun. 
And the foe could find no shield. 



( 309 ) 

And those who oft for glory fought, 
Were doomed no more to know. 
But now, in their speed their safety sought. 
And death kept with the slow; 

For a band unwearied in the fight. 
By wrongs provoked, pursued their flight, 
And many lay, ere the morning's light, 
Down on their gorgets low, 

Now pity o'er the brave prevail'd. 

Who trod the field of gore. 
And many a bold heart's mansion hail'd. 
To ask if life was o'er : 

'Twas long from some choice spirits fled, 
And the last chill'd drop some just had bled. 
But many maim'd from among the dead. 
And off the field, they bore. 

And many sigh'd for a comrade lost, 

Who had cheer'd his arduous hours; 
And many a weeping fair was cross'd. 
By love's disastrous powers; 

And yet there beam'd through their grief a 

pride. 
For the envious deaths their heroes died. 
Which might have been thro' tears descried. 
Just like the sun in showers. 



( 310 ) 

And the scene shall long fond thoughts renew, 

Tho' tears bedim the eye ; 
And long, with that field of fame in view. 
Shall a Briton's heart beat high, 

Who treads the soil where the valiant fell. 
And views the mounds which their ashes swell, 
And reads the tombs which their glories tell, 
In Belgium where they lie. 



( 311 ) 



POOR KITTY. 



No joy in early youth denied, 

No thought adverse distress'd me ; 
My parent's care my wants supplied, 

Who to their bosoms press'd me ; 
But death, whose power no arm can brave, 

Or plaints arrest of pity. 
Hath borne them from me to the grave, 

And friendless left poor Kitty. 



No home wherein to hide my head. 

No earthly friend to guide me. 
Too young in years to earn my bread. 

Whatever will betide me ! 
A wandering, houseless child of care, 

A candidate for pity. 
If bless'd by Heaven with aught to spare. 

Relieve the wants of Kitty ! 



( 312 ) 

By early admonitions taught 

That life's beset with danger, 
It fills with dread, and pains with thought, 

An unprotected stranger. 
If sheltered from its snares awhile. 

Beneath some roof of pity, 
What fervent prayers with Heaven's smile 

Would bless the friends of Kitty! 



( 313 ) 



LINES 

OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING PRINTED BILL, 

FIXED IN THE BEAK OF ONE IN A GROUP OF FIVE STUFFED 

OWLS IN THE SHOP WINDOW OF A BIRD STUFFER, 

AT RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. 



" We five owls were once alive; 

On birds and mice we used to thrive ; 

Through barns and towers oft did fly 

In search of prey both wet and dry, 

And on each shining summer's day 

In hollow trees we pass'd our time away, 

Till the cruel sportsman forc'd us to the field. 

Then unto the gun we were obliged to yield ; 

But now we have undergone dissection, 

To add and join this grand collection. 

Glass eyes we have got and cannot see, 

Spectacles are of use, but not to we ; 

Now no more birds or mice we pursue, 

For we are stuffed, and it is true. 

By Mr. Stevenson, — who stufF'd us five. 

And hundreds more, as though they were alive. 

W. Stevenson, 
StufFer of Birds, Animals, Reptiles, and Fish ; 
Dealer in Fishing-Tackle, 
Richmond, Yorkshire." 



( 314 ) 

Indeed, ye five, 

Were ye alive? 
Was wisdom doom'd to suffer ? 

And did your brains 

Reward the pains 
Of Stevenson your stuffer ? 

Why in his lines 
Such merit shines^ 

The wonder now is known ; 

He, vain pretence, 

-. Purloin'd your sense, 

And pass'd it for his own ! 

The fraud forgive ; 

Your fame will live. 
And pass to future times. 

And long the sight 

And sense delight, 
In feathers and and in rhymes. 

May, to the six. 

From chance and tricks. 
Be kind protection given ! 

The owls are worth 

The charge of earth ; 
The man, the care of Heaven! 



( 315 ) 



ON THE DEATH OF GAFFER GUN. 



Poor old Gaffer Gun, 

Thy labour is done, 
The sod thou shalt sever no more ; 

Thy doublet and flail 

Are hung on a nail, 
But the corn's left undress 'd on the floor. 

The Lord of the soil 

Set a time for thy toil, 
Tho' thy work should be left in the rough ; 

And true to the hour. 

Invested with power, 
Death came, and cried '* Gaffer, enough!" 

With insight profound. 

As the season came round. 
To thy sickle and scythe thou'dst an eye ; 

But ere the corn's brown 

Thou, alas! art cut down, 
And now in death's stack-yard must lie. 



( 316 ) 

And when to be tried, 

Soul and body divide, 
May thy sins be, as chaff, lightly driven; 

But as grain, bright and sound. 

May thy spirit be found. 
And 'twill meet a good market in Heaven. 



( 317 ) 



TO A GENTLEMAN 

WHO MARRIED A SECOND WIFE THREE DAYS AFTER THE 
INTERMENT OF HIS FIRST. 



Says the moral divine, 

" 'Tis a sin to repine 
At whatever fate may ordain thee ; 

Be it mild or severe, 

'Tis the best for thee here, 
From sorrow 'tis wise to refrain thee." 

And wisdom thou'st shown. 

In a loss of thine own, 
A form once ador'd beyond measure ; 

Thy grief lost its hold. 

As the object grew cold, 
And thy heart soon was wean'd of its trea- 
sure. 

And Heaven was kind 

To a soul so resign'd. 
And favour'd thee more than another ; 

As Death thro' one door 

A faded joy bore, 
Love danced with one in at the other. 



( 318 ) 

And give it thy care ! 

For many's the fair 
More slow would have been to endear thee ; 

But, panting for breath, 

And undaunted by death, 
She ran to caress and to cheer thee. 

Slow wooers impart. 

That the springs of the heart 
Take patience and time in discerning, 

But, quick-sighted dears, 

You saw, thro' your tears. 
Love's passion was mutually burning. 

But, 'twas reckless to pay. 

By three days delay. 
The useless expense of a carriage ; 

In that which you rode 

To death's dark abode. 
You might have return'd from your marriage. 

And what tongues would have told, 

How you went with a cold — 
But soon you return'd with a warm one ; 

And fame would have ran 

With the worth of the man 
Possessed of such powers to charm one. 



( '319 ) 



MY NOSE, 



What leads me on where'er I go, 
In sun and shade, in joy and woe, 
Thro' fog and tempest, rain and snow ? 

My Nose, 

In youth's most ardent reckless day, 
And when arose disputes at play. 
What would be foremost in the fray ? 

My Nose. 

And should my tongue rude blows provoke. 
What would protrude and brave each stroke, 
Till coral streams its pains bespoke ? 

My Nose. 

And falling in an airy bound, 
In chase of some new charm or sound. 
To save me — what came first to ground? 

My Nose. 



( 320 ) 

When some dark pass I would explore, 
With neither shut nor open door, 
What oft for me hard usage bore ? 

My Nose. 

And when in want I yearn'd to eat, 
And hunger might my judgement cheat. 
What prompted me to food most sweet ? 

My Nose. 

Mid violet banks and woodbine bowers, 
And beds where bloom'd the fairest flowers. 
What fed me with their fragrant powers ? 

My Nose. 

Each eye may need in age a guide. 
And when young helpmates I provide, 
Thy back thou'lt lend for them to stride, 

My Nose. 

And can I or in care or glee. 
Refuse my aid and love to thee. 
Who thus hast felt and bled for me, 

My Nose ? 



( 321 ) 

No; when cold winter's winds blow high, 
And bite thee hard, and thou shalt cry, 
Thy tears with sympathy I'll dry. 

My Nose. 

And if for snuff thy love shall come. 
Thy slaves, my finger and my thumb, 
Shall faithful be, and bear thee some. 

My Nose. 

Still as I follow thee along, 

Oh ! may'st thou never lead me wrong. 

But thou must hush our sleeping song, 

My Nose! 



( 3^2 ) 



FROM A COBLER TO B. 

ON RETURNING HIM AN OLD PAIR OF SHOES. 



Your shoes have I look'd o'er and o'er, 

And tell you as a friend, 
The more I look'd, I thought the more 

Their case too bad to mend. 

Their seams are rent, and soles abused, 

Beyond my art's redress; 
Their upper parts, more rudely used, 

Seem weeping in distress. 

Had they not turn'd aside, I ween. 

Thro' your untoward ways. 
They might their maker's pride have been. 

And borne you many days. 

But keep then steadfast in your mind; 

Expose them on a shelf. 
And well they'll serve you to remind 

A sinner of himself. 



( 32S ) 

Oh ! think, like these may be your plight, 

As you their state discern, 
Should you not mend and walk upright, 

Ere you too old are worn. 

And should you mend, and Man shall cry, 
What brought vice to a close? 

Raise to the shelf a reverend eye. 
And say, " 'Twas those old shoes." 

And with your name bequeath them down, 

And earnestly desire, 
That every rising race be shown, 

What turn'd from sin its sire. 



y2 



S24 ) 



VERSES 

WRITTEN FOR A BOY TO LETiRN AND REPEAT WHO HAD 
COMMITTED A SMALL THEFT. 



Oh God ! whose searching eye doth see 
Mine every deed— ill done or well — 

No thought of mine's unknown to thee; 
Unknown is no untruth I tell. 

A liar's tongue dost thou disclaim, 
Against a thief denouncest woe ; 

And all who vilify thy name 
Are punish 'd in the gulf below. 

An act of theft my name hath stain'd, 
Which I denied with daring vow ; 

But injur'd truth my guilt proclaim'd, 

And conscious shame o'erwhelms me now. 

How much, O God, my crime offends. 

How ruthful its effect appears; 
Displeas'd art Thou, and mortal friends; 

And dim a father's eyes with tears. 



( S25 ) 

But with that kind, benignant aid, 

Which Thou canst give and I implore, 

I'll seek the path from which I stray 'd. 
And swerve from them and Thee no more. 

But hope, and aim, in life to be 

What truth and virtue may approve ; 

And glorify and honour Thee, 
And recompense a parent's love. 



( S26 ) 



^J 



A PRAYER IN AFFLICTION. 



Thou Maker of all things, Thou Lord of all living, 
Thou whom to thy creatures such wonders disclose, 

Oh ! look down with mercy benign and forgiving, 
And chase from my turbulent bosom its woes. 

Or grant, if affliction shall still be thy pleasure, 
That ne'er, to evade it, I wander astray; 

But make of those precepts my soul's dearest treasure, 
Thou hast set forth to guide us on life's troubled way. 

Then, tho' in my progress rude storms may assail me. 
And in a world selfish no shelter be given. 

As darkness enclose me, I'll hope Thou wilt hail me. 
And bid me repose in the mansion of heaven. 



( 3^7 ) 



AN EPITAPH 



PHILIP AND MARY JONES. 



Grim Death conceals beneath these stones, 
The mortal part of Philip Jones, 
Where erst his wife, poor Sarah, lay, 
And fast they now return to clay. 

Tho' life exalts thine head on high. 
Look pensive down on where they lie ; 
And know, howe'er with gifts endow'd, 
How rich or poor, how meek or proud. 
Time levels all to one degree. 
And soon what they are thou shalt be. 

Be just, like them, that death may deal 
The latest pang thou'rt doom'd to feel ; 
That when to earth thy body's given. 
Thy soul may find repose in Heaven. 



( S2S ) 



LINES 

ON 

THE DEATH OF MISS SADLTER BRUERE, 

WHO DIED, AND WAS INTERRED BY THE SIDE OF BUSS BURNET 
WHO WAS BURIED BUT A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER, AT 

BRIGHTON, September, 1828, aged 22. 
Tours, December 1, 1828. 



Thou wert seen, faded blossom with joy and endear'd 
As the first of thy kind on the stem that appear'd; 
Thou wert watch'd with affection, and hope with thee 

grew, 
As, with promise, thy form still expanded to view; 
Thou wert come to the period when nature displays 
The sweets with which time for her culture repays, 
And when to the world thou wert opening in bloom, 
Thou wert chill'd by the blast, and enclos'd in a tomb. 

Thou wert miss'd in the group when the eye look'd 

around. 
And miss'd by the ear was thy voice in the sound. 
Thy chamber was darksome, thy bell was unrung. 
Thy footstep unheard, and thy lyre unstrung : 



( 329 ) 

A stillness prevail'd at the mournful repast; 

In tears was the eye on thy vacant seat cast ; 

Each scene wearing gloom, and each brow bearing 

care, 
Too plainly denoted that death had been there. 

Thou wert laid by the side of thine emblem in years ; 
Ere dry was her grave thine was moisten'd with tears : 
And ye hold to the world a joint lesson of truth. 
That life is not safe in the keeping of youth. 
Could care avert death, and the heart's treasure save, 
Ye had not been doom'd to a premature grave. 
Now ye sleep on the hill by the sea-beaten shore. 
And the voice of the storm shall awake ye no more. 

To earth we consign'd thee, and made an advance. 
The thought to beguile, to the vineyards of France. 
But 'twould not be cheated; of all that was rare. 
Fond nature kept whispering a wish thou could'st 

share : 
No air softly swelling, no chord struck with glee. 
But awoke in the bosom remembrance of thee. 
Even now, as the cold winds adown the leaves bring, 
We sigh that our flow'ret was blighted in spring. 



( 330 ) 

Life's pilgrimage is but a trial of trust, 

And bliss, at its period, the meed of the just. 

Why then should we mourn thee, with sigh or with tear. 

And at thy advancement in trouble appear? 

To the home which thou'rt gone to we're destin'd to go, 

And the further we journey the greater our woe. 

To thee, more deserving, the favour was given, 

To pass, whilst we wander, a near road to Heaven. 



( 331 ) 



TO 



OUR WORTHY SHEPHERD, MR. WAY, 



ON HEARING OF HIS BEARING SOME YOUNG WOLVES. 



Tours, June, 1829. 



As the sheep of the fold 
Whom your Rev'rence has told 

The sinful and vile to be loathing, 
And of wolves to beware, 
For, without moral care, 

They'll steal on the flock in sheep's clothing; 



We, alas! Mr. Way, 

Must distrust what you say, 

When next you entreat us to heed them ; 
When, leaving us then, 
You go home to their den 

With fatherly fondness to feed them. 



{ SS2 ) 

May our Shepherd above 
Keep us still in your love, 

Though the wolves may a portion inherit; 
If those must prevail 
O'er the flesh, which is frail, 

Let us be illumed with the Spirit. 



FINIS. 



615 «^ 



LONDON ; 

PRINTED BY C. ROWORTH, BLLL VARD, 

TEMPLE BAR. 




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